For Keeps
by Darthishtar
Summary: The story of a girl, a boy and a Quidditch season. This is a story by a friend's request about the experience of Ginny Weasley being a Chudley Cannons fan. Lots of mush, quite a bit of humor and written with all the love and affection of a Red Sox fan.
1. Chapter 1

_Note: This is dedicated to Kateydidnt/MadamAuthor, who stood in our living room and promised me that if I wrote this fic, she would watch a Boston Red Sox game with me._

PROLOGUE

Dad never knew what he was getting himself into that fateful day in 1989.

I was eight years old with six older brothers and Mum who was much more accustomed to letting me act like a tomboy than trying to raise me as a girl. After all, I was the first female Weasley born in several generations and she had her hands full enough trying to keep the twins from hexing Ron.

When Dad suggested that Uncle Bilius take me out to have some fun, Mum waved a dishtowel distractedly at me and told me not to talk to any strangers, hags or Muggles and to be home by dark.

Our seats weren't even that good. We were behind Parkinson's Pole on the east side of the Quidditch pitch and Dedalus Diggle, who had one of the seats in front of us, wouldn't take off that top hat of his.

Still, it was the first time in a few years that I had enjoyed something without my brothers to nag me and I paid close attention to everything that Uncle Bilius said about the rules of the game, the players on the field and what a "barmy old blunderer" the referee was.

It was a great match—they won by 50 points for the first time that season—and by the time we Flooed back to the Burrow, I was one of the world's most pathetic creatures: A Chudley Cannons fan.

A year later, Uncle Bilius died just twenty-four hours after seeing a Grim. It was the first time that anyone I had known had died and I was quite shaken. He left a few things to our family—Ron's middle name, the Sneakoscope that always sat as a conversation piece on his kitchen table, and other odd things. The one thing that he left to me was the set of season tickets to the Chudley Cannons games.

Since I'm still at Hogwarts, most of those go to my parents or their friends during the school term. My wedding gift to Bill and Fleur was a pair of much-coveted tickets to the Tornadoes/Cannon game that month. Every holiday, though, I find the time to see a few matches for myself and I am probably the only girl in the school who wears a Cannons nightshirt to bed.

The others simply don't know what they're missing, the poor fellows.

They say there is nothing as fine as a game of Quidditch played well. Whoever "they" are, they have never watched a Cannons game. It's true that they're not always the ones who pull ahead at the end or who take home the League cup, but for those of us who want to see a team play with heart, the Cannons never disappoint.

That's why I'm absolutely certain that they'll take the league this year. They won't let me down.

CHAPTER 1

One of the many advantages to having Harry Potter for a fiancé was the fact that he didn't mind the small things that I did. He wasn't much bothered when studying for N.E.W.T.s took priority over the romantic candlelit dinner he had planned. He never complained that I occasionally left one of Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes around his house.

One of the things that I appreciated a great deal, though, was the fact that he wasn't conceited. For example, if Dean Thomas or Michael Corner had made the front page of the Daily Prophet, they would have expected me to linger over the article, rereading every word and wondering if the photo made their nose look big. Harry, on the other hand, didn't mind that I took a quick look at the headline and then opened the _Prophet _to the sports section.

"Who's Tutshill playing this weekend?" he asked idly over a piece of toast.

"Falmouth Falcons," I reported.

Everyone who followed Quidditch who was listening in on the conversation grimaced at the mention of the toughest players in the League.

"Never thought I'd feel sorry for the Tornadoes," Dennis Creevey murmured, "but the Falcons are…"

He broke off with a shudder and went back to eating his porridge. Harry leaned over, scanning down the list of standings with a practiced eye.

"And Chudley's facing off against Kenmare," he reported. "They're an easy target."

"Too right," a first-year Harpies fan piped up, obviously enthusiastic about debating Quidditch with the upperclassmen. "They bungled the Bagman Bounce last weekend and…"

He trailed off as every person involved in the conversation turned an eye on him, some with disgust, some with amusement, most with curiosity. He quickly shoved a piece of toast into his mouth and tried his best to not be noticed again.

"Well," I said before anyone could pick up where he left off, "I think this is the Cannons' year."

"Come off it, Gin," Miriam Marks scoffed. "They haven't even come close to taking the league since your parents were in nappies."

"And the only team with worse standings in the league is… Oh, wait, there isn't one!"

That came from Oliver Wood's second-year sister, a revolting toe-rag named Angela. She had many unpleasant qualities, but one of them happened to be the fact that she thought she knew everything about Quidditch just because her mad brother was now a regular keeper for Puddlemere United.

"Wood!"

Of course, it went without saying that Professor McGonagall would eventually turn up at any and every Quidditch debate in the civilized world. Technically, handing out schedules was the deputy headmaster's job, but she apparently had grown fond of the habit and Professor Flitwick was still mulling over a platter of chipolatas at the staff table.

"One point from Gryffindor for insulting another student's team," she said sternly.

"Yes, Professor," she said dutifully. "Won't happen again, Professor."

_Not ruddy likely._

"Mr. Potter," she addressed Harry. "Should you not be joining us at the staff table?"

Harry blinked with feigned innocence. "But Professor," he said blandly, "I'm taking classes with the rest of the students."

It was true. Harry had agreed to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts assistant instructor on the condition that he be given the opportunity to complete his seventh year. As a result, he would be taking classes during the times that he was not helping Professor Hestia Jones with her lessons. At the end of the year, he would be sitting his exams with the rest of us.

"Besides," he said when Professor McGonagall didn't answer, "_someone_ has to moderate the Gryffindors. You know how rowdy they can be."

There was a general round of laughter at that and McGonagall must have been in high spirits, since she actually smiled at that as she passed out our schedules.

"Don't tarry too long," she admonished Harry. "Have a good term."

We all waited until McGonagall was out of earshot before the "Good one, Potter" comments began. Harry just grinned at that and reached across the table to grab my copy of the _Prophet _for further scrutiny.

"So," he said conversationally, "what makes you think that this is the Cannons' year?"

"Well, it's rather obvious," I said firmly. "This is a year of amazing things. The Dark Lord has been defeated, I'm Quidditch Captain and Droobles just came out with a new kind of gum. With that kind of record, there are bound to be a few upsets."

"So, the Tornadoes will lose everything this year?" Dennis asked.

"I wouldn't go that far," I countered, "but they will ultimately fall."

"Care to put a wager on that?" Angela Wood interrupted.

Technically speaking, there was not supposed to be gambling on school grounds, but it would feel good to see that blighter cut down to size.

"What sort of wager?"

She grinned mischievously. "If you win, I will stand on McGonagall's chair and, wearing orange and black, sing the Cannons' anthem at the end-of-year feast. When I win, you will color your hair blue and wear Tornadoes robes to graduation."

It was a childish wager, one definitely invented by a bored, self-important twelve-year-old, but it would be worth it to see her so humiliated.

"Are you sure you want to take the risk, Weasley?" she taunted, jerking her head towards the _Prophet_. "It's a long climb from the bottom and I think blue looks terrible with your skin."

Harry folded down the edge of the paper to watch, his expression neutral except for the look in his eyes. He was clearly thinking the same thing as I was about the end-of-the-year entertainment to come.

"It's a deal," I proclaimed.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

There are times when I reckon that Harry spent far too much time with Hermione Granger last year. It has nothing to do with jealousy or funny ideas about what they did on those long nights in the Forest of Dean. It has everything to do with the fact that, every once in a while, Harry will turn very obnoxiously pragmatic and lose three-quarters of his sense of adventure.

Apparently, one of the main causes for this is the fact that he occasionally remembers that he is a teacher. This means that, even as an assistant professor, he should not be breaking as many of the school rules as he used to.

We usually don't row about things. It's not to say that we don't get irritated with each other or yield to the temptation to hex each other on occasion, but it usually doesn't come to unkind words.

Tonight, though, he was trying my patience.

"It's not permitted," Harry argued. "Even if I could arrange it, it's too far."

"Codswallop," I shot back. "We're both of age and there's no danger in Apparating anymore. It's not even during the week, so you can't say I've got lessons in the morning or an essay to write."

He squirmed at that, which meant that he was weakening. I decided to press my advantage.

"You said we could go at any time during the season," I reminded him, "or did you not mean your birthday present?"

Technically, his birthday present to me was that he would treat me to a fancy dinner and then acco pany me to the Quidditch match of my choice. He probably reckoned that I would beg him to go to the Hogsmeade Invitational on boxing day. There was, however, no guarantee that the Cannons would be playing in this years Invitational.

"It's the first Cannons/Tornadoes game of the year," I wheedled. "That's a special occasion if I ever heard of one."

Unfortunately, we couldn't argue the point any further, since Professor Jones started the lesson and Harry had to focus on other things than getting out of a perfectly good date. I was not going to let him off that easily.

When he passed by to check on my assignment from last night, I passed him a note that read: _No one would even notice we were gone._

That wasn't strictly true. Someone was bound to wonder why Mr. Potter wasn't at either the staff table or the Gryffindor table. Then they would start wondering where I had gone off to. Rumors might start to fly about whether or not we had eloped or what Halloween celebrations we were doing in a more private setting.

That might have been the reason for his answering note: _McGonagall would have my head._

It was true. After all, it might not be good for the school's image if a teacher were to go off with a student for the weekend, no matter if Quidditch were involved or not. McGonagall had tacitly taken our engagement in stride, but only after we explained that the wedding date was set for the month after graduation and that we had no intentions of 'comporting yourselves in a wholly unseemly manner.'

More likely, she'd have his head because she would be trapped at Hogwarts while we were watching one of the most anticipated matches of the season. She would be green with envy, but that could work to my advantage.

"_Professor," I could imagine myself reasoning, "I never thought that you would deny a fellow Quidditch fan the joy of watching a match well played."_

Well, all right, it would probably be less smooth than that, but it was worth a shot.

When Harry came back to pass back our latest exam, I finally responded to his note.

_Leave McGonagall to me._

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All right, I didn't expect her to cave in immediately to my demands. It is McGonagall after all and that woman has a soft spot for no one. Still, I didn't expect it to be as stubborn as he was.

"Miss Weasley, I cannot presume to dictate the actions of my colleagues," she said stiffly, "but I would hope that you and Mr. Potter would demonstrate more sense than that."

Honestly, the way she was talking, the woman thought I would come back pregnant and having forgotten to write my essay on trans-species transfiguration.

"It's not for personal reasons," I lied. "It's for the good of the team."

McGonagall just raised an eyebrow at me.

"Gryffindor," I clarified. "Charlie always told me that he got great strategy ideas from watching Quidditch matches and we'll have just enough time before the match against Slytherin to put some of the tactics I learn there to use."

"From the Cannons?" she sniffed, herself a Wimbourne Wasps fan.

"From either of the teams," I said pointedly. "This match would provide excellent research material and you did say you wanted to see Gryffindor win again this year."

Actually, she had mentioned in her first meeting with me that she would personally write any letter of recommendation that I required if I got Gryffindor the Quidditch Cup. Resorting to extortion might not have been the best idea, though, so I held my tongue.

"Your family has season tickets, does it not?" she asked with a hint of envy in her voice.

"They do," I confirmed.

"I will give my consent on the condition that either your parents or your elder brother and sister-in-law accompany you," she said archly.

And, undoubtedly, on the condition that neither I nor Fleur spend any time alone with our significant other. That would fall under the 'unseemly' category again.

It was no wonder the woman had no children.


	3. Chapter 3

_Note: Thanks to my roommate who, upon reading this, will be then watching Game 2 of the ALDS playoffs on October 5. Thanks to my unnamed friend who inspired Lillian Turner in a semi-oblique way. Thanks to the Boston Red Sox who continue to inspire me! Oh, and many thanks to my patient ex-roommate who helped me come up with names for the Wizarding equivalent of the Curse of the Bambino._

CHAPTER 3

There are some beautiful things in the world. The Snitch at the end of a Gryffindor-Slytherin game for one. Hogwarts at sunrise for another. That Muggle palace in London isn't too bad either. Harry definitely makes the list.

There is, however, nothing to compare with the Cannons' Quidditch stadium. Sure, the entrance to the stadium, lined with orange marigolds and black cobblestones is nice. The stands aren't too bad for comfort either. Malcolm, the bloke who's been selling pasties my entire life, is always good for a laugh.

There is a kind of friendship in the stands, though. It always seems as though it's us against the world and we stand united. We know who to cheer for and that all refs will be idiots when it comes to fouls.

The best, though, is the section for the season tickets. We all have a different story about what brought us there. With me, it was Uncle Bilius and the need for something that wasn't passed down through the Weasley brothers.

Maggie Llwellyn fought for two hours for custody of her two kids and six days for the season tickets when she and Mr. Llwellyn split. In the end, she got to keep the kids and the tickets and she now alternates taking Elsie and John to the games.

Then there are the Markses. We scoffed at the fact that Lilian Turner never took the same man to a match twice, but she reckoned that she had to keep trying until she found someone who was just as avid about the Cannons as she was. She had even been engaged to a Cannons fan before took a liking to the Wasps and confessed to falling in love with her flatmate. In the end, she ended up marrying John Marks, the quiet widower from the Muggle Liaision Office who had sat on her left for ten years. I was her bridesmaid.

And then, of course, there are the ten seats reserved for the Darymples. They have passed down those tickets from father to son since the first season of the Chudley Cannons' existence. You're never sure if Charlie, the dad, will cast an orange spell on his eyes or Transfigure his head into a cannonball, but he's always entertaining to watch. He is on his third marriage now, but his first wife still comes to every game with someone in the family. That might be why he's on wife number three. It's never clear. As it is, the Darymples are guaranteed to be the loudest pack in the stadium, if nothing else from sheer size.

What I like best about this lot has nothing to do with their stories, even though those are entertaining enough. It's that they treat the Cannon fan's existence as a sacred thing and are always willing to welcome converts.

Tonight, of course, we got there half an hour before the match started. That was out of self-preservation and common courtesy. Self-preservation because no one wants to be caught in the middle of the mass Apparation that happens about ten minutes before the whistle blow. Common courtesy because there is no sense in visiting surrogate family if you don't make time to stop and chat for a good six hours. We like to get a head start in case the game runs short.

"A new one, eh, Weasley?" John Marks teases. "I was wondering when you'd start noticing that there are males outside of the Weasley family."

"Quiet, you," Lil scoffed, cuffing him on the shoulder. "Don't listen to this mutton-head."

"I never do," I lie—Marks knows more about Quidditch history than McGonagall and is dead useful at times. "This is Harry."

As I suspected, no one took a second glance at his scar. Immediately, the Llwellyns leaned over for a better look and Jean Darymple pinched Harry's bicep.

"Looks like a Seeker," she said approvingly.

"I was," Harry informed her, not bothering to be embarrassed by the attention; the Boy Who Lived had forgotten how to mind being stared at eventually. "Six years on the Gryffindor Quidditch team."

"Good man," Charlie smirked. "I was a Ravenclaw Chaser myself and met Jean here after she Bludgered me in the mouth during a Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw game our fifth year. It was love at first concussion."

Mary, his current wife, glowered through the whole recitation. She didn't seem too chuffed about being here tonight. My guess is that she'll straighten out or get out by the end of the season.

"So, Ginny," Charlie commented as we squeezed past his massive belly to get to our seats, "what do you think of Gryffindor's chances this year?"

"We've got a good team," I told him frankly. "More brains than brawn, but that hasn't hurt us in the past."

"Ah, good," Marks said approvingly. "It works for our Cannons and if those rumors about the new Gryffindor captain are true, I think they'll do well."

"It had better," I commented. "We don't want to break our winning streak."

"Hear, hear," Maggie called.

Frank, Charlie's youngest and dumbest, suddenly frowned at Harry as if he had done something terribly wrong. This was impressive, since Harry had said all of two sentences, but Frank liked to pick fights.

"Here," he muttered. "You look like...uh..."

Oh, here we would go again. We had been stopped enough by people who wanted to shake Harry's hand or talk his ear off on the way in and just when we were settling down for an exciting match, Frank was going to ruin it.

"You look like a Tornadoes fan."

Harry blinked and I could tell that he was cottoning on to the fact that this was either a more talkative version of Gregory Goyle or a less daft version of Dudley Dursley. After all, he was wearing an orange t-shirt, black trousers and the Cannons hat that Ron had given him years ago.

"Really, how could you tell?" he deadpanned.

Frank's expression darkened and luckily, Jean intervened or Frank might have taken a swing. "JOKING," she bellowed. "He was JOKING, Frankie. Settle down, now. Mummy's bought you some butterbeer."

Of course. Harry was more famous than the Minister of Magic and no one minded as long as he supported the right team. He seemed to be enjoying that anonymity.

"Listen," Frank said stubbornly as he settled down with a butterbeer and six pasties. "Gin's my girlfriend. Has been for ages. If you come near her, I'll hex your nose off."

"I look forward to it," Harry said smoothly.

"So, what do you do, Harry?" asked Jean, obviously eager to change the subject before Harry decided to point out the obvious to her son.

"I'm an assistant professor at Hogwarts," Harry replied with a grateful look. "Defense Against the Dark Arts."

"Job for nutters if you ask me," Maggie interjected. "You hear what happened to the others?"

_Well, he was there in first year when his teacher turned out to have Voldemort sticking out of his skull. He was around when Lockhart lost his memory in second year. Third year, Lupin resigned after going all furry in front of him. Fourth year, Moody could have killed him. Fifth year, Umbridge got chased out of the school. Sixth year, the Defense teacher murdered the Headmaster and had to do a runner. Seventh year...well, that's when things got a bit interesting..._

"Someone might have mentioned it," Harry said simply. "You believe in superstition?"

"Come on," I laughed. "These are the people who believe in the Curse of the Dodger the same way the Pope believes in God."

At that, every other person within earshot spit on the floor and crossed their fingers, the usual ward against such bad luck. Harry just looked vaguely confused.

"The Curse of the Dodger?" he repeated.

"What, Ron hasn't told you?" I asked.

"Probably," Harry admitted. "I like playing Quidditch better than hearing about it."

"It's got a whole appendix on it in _Flying With the Cannons_," Charlie added.

"Stop giving him a bibliography," I snapped. "I'll explain it."

"Thank you," Harry responded, squeezing my hand much to Frank's disgust.

"About eighty-five years ago..."

"Eddy-_fix_," Frank corrected stubbornly around a pasty.

"Fine," I said smoothly, "eighty-six years ago, the Cannons were managed by a man named Lothario Lydecker. He was brilliant—they won the League five years running and were all set to go for a sixth when he fell in love with the Keeper. Daphne Dodge.

"She thought he was a brilliant manager, but had no interest in him. In fact, she was quite taken with one of the Chasers. They were planning to get married once the season was over and Lydecker wanted to stop that in any way he could. He sold Dodger to the Tornadoes mid-season and this was back in the day when they were practicing in Wales because that was the only town that would still sponsor them after losing five seasons to the Cannons.

"Dodge was too much of a lady to hex him outright, but she told Lydecker that the Cannons wouldn't ever win the League without her. And they haven't."

There was a long moment of silence as if I had just mentioned a close friend's death.

"In eighty-six years," Harry repeated. "I know I've heard of them being in the League finals before."

"Of course you have," Charlie sighed. "They've had rotten luck, they have. Five years ago, they lost after a three-week game."

"I remember that," I said reverently. "Mum had to keep owling food parcels to me. She and Dad took turns staying the night with me and they raffled off the right to watch days of the game. One man died right over there by the third hoop and they took a five-minute break the next day to have a funeral there. They reckoned he would have wanted it that way."

"And then, when they were finally up by 140, Kenmare's Beaters gave our Seeker a broken leg and before she could recover, their duffer of a Seeker copped the Snitch," Charlie concluded. "Another time, they lost the finals in the first five minutes. Shortest finals match in history."

"They come close every time," Jean explained, "but there's always something."

"Not this year," I asserted. "It's a new world and time for a new League champion."

"Oh, I agree," Harry said hastily. "That's why you're not the only one who's made a wager."

Yet again, I was reminded of #73 on my list of reasons why I loved him: He supported my craziness and then added a little of his own for good measure.

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah," he said. "Hestia thinks they won't win the League—she's a Harpies fan—and if they do, all of her students are getting full marks on their end-of-the-year exams."

"Well done," Charlie grunted, slapping him hard on the back. "Have a butterbeer and tell us what you have to do if they lose."

From the look on Harry's face, it was guaranteed to involve him naked and being the staff table's end-of-the-year centerpiece. He recovered quickly and just grinned.

"I won't," he insisted. "They're not going to."

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I wish I could say that the Cannons flattened the Tornadoes that night, but it was actually the only tie of the season so far, since Knightley caught the Snitch when the Tornadoes were still 150 ahead. Still, it was much better than losing and that was something to celebrate.

"Eet was too hot there," Fleur complained, fanning herself gracefully with one of the programs. "I don't think I would like to go to the next one."

Honestly, she said the same thing about every place I liked. There were too many people. The stadium was too hot. The food was too fattening. The ruddy musicians skipped a measure. My dear sister-in-law had about as much humor as a constipated Snorkack.

"It's all right, dear," Bill said soothingly. "Mum will be happy that you gave it a go even once."

Mum was more likely to say something along the lines of "I told you so," but I didn't say that.

"Did you have a good time, Harry?" Bill continued as we walked to the Apparation point.

"Brilliant," Harry said honestly. "Best six hours I've spent all season."

He had gotten into the spirit of things, wagering with Frank to break the ice, arguing with Maggie over a foul and even letting the Llwellyns pour butterbeer over him when Knightley caught the Snitch. I wasn't sure if he was doing it for my sake or his, but it was good to know that he could still make a complete fool of himself when the situation warranted it.

"Well, I hope you're hungry," I said. "Fleur made bouillabaisse and I'm starving."

"Great," Harry sighed, sliding an arm around my shoulders as Bill and Fleur turned on the spot and vanished. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did," I promised.

He turned and his hand came up to cup my chin, tilting it so he could kiss me slowly. I wrapped my right hand around his warm neck and leaned eagerly into it, forgetting for a moment that we had promised to follow Bill and Fleur immediately. They were newylweds. They would understand the need for romance.

"I came for you," he murmured as he pulled away and released me, "but after tonight, I'm doing this for myself as well."


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Since I was both a survivor of the Battle of Hogwarts and Harry Potter's current love interest, I had the chance to meet many people after the end of the war who had a personal interest in how things had turned out. Everyone seemed to have known a cousin in the battle or had lived around the corner from a Muggle affected by something Voldemort had done. Universally, people were very grateful that the monster's reign of terror had ended.

For the most part, that held true for the students at Hogwarts as well. The one exception was the Slytherin Quidditch Team. It was not that they generally liked a Dark Lord on the loose—in theory, anyway—but to them, it had not been The Boy Who Lived defeating He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. It was just another example of Gryffindor bullying Slytherin. This year, they seemed to be determined to prove that they were alive and kicking, even if their House's most infamous member was not.

The Gryffindors had no problems with that, of course. Anything that made Quidditch worth watching was fine by anyone who cared in the House and since we were still the reigning victors in the Quidditch Cup, there were few Gryffindors who actually managed apathy on the subject when it came down to it.

That, most likely, accounted for the turnout for the first match of the season. _Gryffindor vs. Slytherin_ was always worth the effort of neglecting studies, even for the teachers. And win or lose, we Gryffindors always put up a good fight.

The problem was that the Slytherins did the same, but focused on the word 'fight.' Somewhere around the sixth foul, when Demelza had just been knocked into the stands by Caius Flint and I had lost a tooth to a Bludger, Madame Hooch finally called for a time out and I took my team to the sidelines.

"Miss Weasley," Professor McGonagall blurted as she pushed her way through the team, "do you have a reserve Seeker?"

"Be with you in a moment, Professor," I lisped. "The thcoreth thickthty to ten and the weather'th not getting any better. Thuggethtionth?"

It was encouraging that no one made a crack about my newfound speech impediment. McGonagall stood in stern expectation, her expression suggesting that if we didn't come up with something _fast_, she would land the lot of us in detention.

"I say we end it now," Miriam suggested. "We're fifty ahead and we don't want them to catch up."

"And we'll have plenty of time to flatten them in the finals," Demelza added.

"It'll mean that we'll have to win our other matcheth by a lot," I pointed out. "Think we can do it?"

"Too right," Jack Sloper piped up. "Besides, it'll just make them mad. That alone is worth the effort."

I grinned at that and immediately regretted it as my mouth throbbed a reminder that I wasn't unscathed. Taking that as her cue, McGonagall peered crossly at me.

"I don't like the looks of that, Weasley," she said predictably. "Who's your reserve?"

"We don't have one," I said impatiently.

"Not an official one," Harry added from behind McGonagall.

Of course. This was another manifestation of his 'saving-people thing.' It wasn't vanity, just a really obnoxious habit.

"You're not...you're a teacher," I spluttered.

"And a student," McGonagall corrected. "I see no reason why we cannot keep him in reserves..."

"I'm team captain and I thould have a thay..." It was growing more and more difficult to do this graciously and I swiped furiously at my mouth. "You're not taking my plathe."

"Into your robes, Potter," McGonagall snapped. "Weasley, we'll have him on hand _in case of emergency. _I believe you have a game to win."

"Yeth, Profethor," I muttered.

Harry flashed me an unconvincingly apologetic smile and headed for the locker room. It made sense to have a reserve—just since I'd arrived at Hogwarts, we'd lost two games by having our Seeker knocked out—but it grated on me to have Harry taking over _this_. I'd have more than few words with him just as soon as I stopped sounding like Babbity Rabbity.

"Ginny!" Miriam yelled.

I turned and ran back to the boundary, kicking off just as the whistle blew again. Immediately, I had to do a sloth-grip roll to avoid a Bludger, but Jack swooped in to the rescue and I angled my broom upwards, hoping to get a birds-eye view of the field.

The bell sounded, announcing another score. It took a moment for me to get my bearings so I could find out that it had been our point. Flint was in possession of the Quaffle, but a moment later, Ritchie Coote's latest effort made him drop it into Vicky Frobisher's waiting arms. She was nearly in range of the hoop when Harper grabbed her by the hair and sent her spinning through the air.

By some miracle, she flung the Quaffle instead of dropping it and the Keeper, enthralled by his teammate's feat, forgot to guard the left hoop.

"_And it's 80-10 to Gryffindor..."_

Usually, I would have given her some kind of encouragement or shouted something along the lines of "Well done," but a moment before the score had been made, I had spotted the Snitch, lurking around the sidelines like a very sneaky sparrow.

Before Madame Hooch could blow the whistle for the foul, I went into a nearly-vertical nose-dive, streaking towards the earth. A quick glance to my left proved that I had competion, but he would never get there in time.

Flint took exception to that and clipped me with the Bludger, but I readjusted my course and plummeted, arm stretched outward.

"HA!"

Unfortunately, I was so fixated on the Snitch that I forgot to pull up and I tumbled half a meter to the ground in a fashion that would have made Tonks proud. I landed hard on my bruised ribs, but was too winded to bellow in pain. Dark spots danced before my eyes, but my job was not yet done.

Before anyone could contest the win, I stuck my arm in the air and the crowd in the stands erupted in cheers.

The next thing I remembered was waking up in the hospital wing with the Gryffindor team sprawled lazily around the empty beds surrounding mine.

"Least she didn't _swallow_ it," Vicky said. "Proves she has more sense than our last captain."

"No arguments there," Harry agreed.

Cootes was the first to notice that I was staring rather blankly at the lot of them and extended a congratulatory Chocolate Frog.

"Hail the conquering heroine," he pronounced. "230-10 to Gryffindor and Slytherin is still fuming."

I remembered _that _much, but the team usually didn't turn up unless someone had been through a near-death experience. Experimentally, I moved my arm and noticed that while my ribs were still burning where they'd been mended, they didn't seem to be broken.

"Superb," I muttered, relieved to note that I had regrown my tooth. "What are you doing here?"

"Madame Pomfrey said you could come back to the dorms as soon as she made sure you hadn't been knocked silly," Harry informed me. "We've been hanging around so we could give you a proper escort to the party."

"Great," I said a little more coherently. "What will we do since I was silly before getting Bludgered in the face?"

The others grinned and Vicky nodded approvingly. "She _seems_ to be normal."

"That'll be for me to decide," Madame Pomfrey interrupted. "Clear off for a few minutes."

"Go on," I encouraged the others. "I'll be up soon."

"I'll stay," Harry offered.

Since I had a few words to say to him that were probably impolite to say within earshot of others, I didn't argue with that.

Less than five minutes later, we were standing outside the Fat Lady's portrait. Harry opened his mouth to say the password, but I grabbed his arm.

"Not until you explain to me what was going on back there," I challenged.

"Come off it, Gin," he sighed. "I was trying to help."

"You were meddling," I corrected, "and if you wanted to help with the team, you should have taken it up with me first."

"Ginny," he said in a more serious tone, "I didn't mean to meddle and I knew that this was a stressful match for you."

"That doesn't give you the right to take liberties," I snapped, pulling away and crossing my arms over my chest. "Not everyone needs saving."

Something crossed his face that wasn't easy to identify. "Force of habit," he said.

I scrubbed one hand over my face, both annoyed at him for not arguing the point and for having tried to do the noble thing again. He was my Harry, my hero, but I couldn't always expect him to be on hand to save the proverbial day.

"I'm sorry," I said finally. "You hit a sore spot."

I didn't want to go into the details of what it was like to stand in the shadow of six brothers, but Harry might understand that already. He'd been Ron's friend from the moment they met.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Harry stepped in and pulled me against him. My arms wrapped around his waist and anchored him to me. He didn't pull back, which was an apology on its own.

"I was out of line," he admitted. "Can we say that we've made up now?"

For a man who had been involved in some of the most infamous battles of the war, he really was not one for confrontation. It was quite endearing.

"I believe the phrase is 'kiss and make up,'" I corrected him.

He grinned as if I had said the magic words and obliged, one hand wrapped around the back of my neck and the other holding me to him. It was easy, too easy, to get lost in a kiss like that, since it demanded nothing and offered everything...

"Excuse me," the Fat Lady interrupted from the canvas at my back, "but if you are quite finished, I'm still waiting for a password..."


	5. Chapter 5

**Props and apologies go to Kateydidnt, who has been nagging me for months to update this and who gave me the idea for the opening scene. I promise to update more often. **

CHAPTER 5

Professor Slughorn had obviously never been a seventeen-year-old girl. He was usually pretty good about making lessons enjoyable—he did things like Pert Potions during thunderstorms and let us experiment—but he had no sense of timing.

There was a two-roll essay on Salubrious Solutions due the day before Christmas holidays in Potions. More likely than not, Slughorn would call it off in a fit of holiday spirits, but it was best not to take chances.

The problem was that there weren't many treatises on weight-loss potions. Most of them were written by the barmy cousin of an American Muggle named Atkins, but had as much sense in them as the Christmas edition of the Quibbler.

It was for this reason that Harry and I were hunched over a stack of books near closing time instead of enjoying some quality alone time. Technically, we _were_ alone, but we hadn't gotten past holding hands in three hours.

"I don't suppose Hermione ever talked about this sort of thing?" Harry said desperately.

"Other than to tell Lavender to stop being an idiot and finish her Charms essay, no," I muttered. "Can you _really_ see Hermione worrying about a few extra holiday pounds?"

"Only in the interest of research," he countered. "She might think it was a fascinating overlap of Muggle practices and wizarding ways."

"True." I glanced up and winked. "Maybe I'll just send her an owl."

"Good idea," he snickered. "She hasn't had a good laugh in a while."

"I doubt that," I said. "She's dating _Ron."_

"Good point."

I glanced enviously at his scroll. "How much longer do you have to go?"

"Six inches. You?"

"Ten."

For a while, there was only the sound of squills scratching on parchment. I'd come across a promising page in "Self-Shrinking Solutions for the Weighty Wizard." Putting in the main points could take up at least another inch...

"So," Harry said slyly, "what plans do we want to have for Christmas?"

We'd had this conversation before, which meant that he was either desperate for a distraction or angling for a schedule change. I was betting on the first one.

"If you're trying to get me to ask you to the Yuletide Invitational, I'd hold off until after lunch with your Muggles," I pointed out.

"Their names are Dudley and Petunia," he corrected.

"And they're the ones who locked you in your room," I added. "And treated you like a house elf."

He shrugged. "People change. Dudley was actually civil to me and Petunia's my aunt. They promised not to bring Vernon and I promised not to hex them unless they called me a freak/"

I still wasn't convinced, but I didn't exactly get why Harry gave them a chance in the first place. Still, people got weird around the holidays. Mum was even letting Percy into the house for the whole day and we'd been threatened with "hexes the likes of which you've only read about" if we put a toe out of line. Of course, I wasn't planning anything unusual. We'd bother each other the way all good siblings did, but while Percy was a prat, he was a repentant prat. That had to count for something.

"What do Dedalus and Hestia say about them?"

Harry rolled his eyes at this. "You know Hestia," he said. "She still thinks they should be jinxed back to last Thursday for how they treated me. Dedalus thinks that they're 'not a bad sort after all.'"

I waved a hand dismissively. "That's what he said about the umbrella stand."

"Well," Harry conceded with a smirk, "I can see the resemblance."

"Merlin's monocle," Madam Pince snapped. "You should have been in bed hours ago. I thought someone had left a candle burning."

"It's all right," Harry said hastily. "We're just clearing up."

It took us a few minutes to check out the books we needed and to return the others to their places. It didn't make it any easier to have the old bat glaring at us the whole time, but finally Harry gallantly took my books and we scurried off in the direction of Gryffindor tower.

"Perhaps we should stay in the common room tomorrow," he suggested. "We might even be able to brainstorm with the others."

I wasn't fond of that idea at all. Doing homework in the common room was like trying to go on a date with half a dozen younger brothers. Not that I would know, of course.

"I miss the Room of Requirement," I sighed.

He grinned. "If you're looking for privacy, there's always the Astronomy Tower..."

"Please," I interrupted sharply. "I'm not interested in sharing a romantic evening with you and overeager fourth-year couples."

He looked theatrically crestfallen at that, but still had a bit of a mischievous glint in his eyes. "All right, not the Astronomy Tower."

We walked in silence for a while longer and I slid my hand up his arm until I had my arm looped through his. "You know," I said contemplatively, "there _is _an annual match between the Tornadoes and the Cannons on Boxing Day. I'd love to have a romantic evening with you _there."_

As far as I was concerned, Harry had always been my first choice for this year's Invitational. He was just too much of a gentleman to take it for granted. Besides, my 'date' to the last four had been Fred.

"I would be honored to accompany you," he said formally.

Of course, this 'romantic evening' was going to be deafening and shared with ten thousand half-crazy Quidditch fans, but that was romantic in its own way.

"It's a date, then."

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We managed to polish off the essays just in time for Professor Slughorn to announce that he was giving us all full marks as our Christmas presents. Most of the class cheered at that, but given the number of nights that Harry and I spent studying instead of snogging, I dropped half a dozen Dungbombs by way of 'thanks.'

Hagrid had us over for tea on the last day before holidays. It was good fun, even if Grawp accidentally smashed the table when he set down his tea vat. We didn't manage to eat much—I still like my teeth too much to eat Hagrid's rock cakes—but we all exchanged gifts and Hagrid walked us to Hogsmeade station right in time for the train back to London.

"Is it always this crazy?" Harry asked as we squeezed through a pack of first-years.

"It's Christmas," I reminded him. "We all lose our heads a bit..."

"It just seems odd," he admitted. "I never had what you might call a typical Hogwarts Christmas."

"Well, if you'd like me to rustle up a man-eating snake, a Mad-Eye Moody impersonator or a deranged Animagus, I'm sure it wouldn't take too long," I teased.

He leaned across my rucksack and kissed me quickly. "I never said I _minded_ a normal holiday."

"Good," I commended. "As long as no one wants you dead, I think we'll be able to give you one."

He moved closer and wrapped his hand around mine, leaning in until...

"Fancy something from the trolley?"

We pulled apart with mutually exasperated sighs and turned to face the plump witch who was looking altogether too pleased with herself for interrupting.

"We've got some lovely mince pies," she said as if nothing had happened. "All the old favorites, too. What can I get you?"

We hurriedly bought a stack of the pies, a handful of Chocolate Frogs and enough Droobles to last us through the entire holiday. When she was sufficiently paid off, she hustled off down the corridor and Harry locked the compartment door.

"Sorry," he said as if the interruption was his fault. "Where were we?"

The food didn't last long, but I thrashed Harry three times at chess and he trounced me soundly at Exploding Snap. Of course, we took time to do other things, but the train ride seemed shorter than usual.

We were pulling into King's Cross when Angela Wood bounced up to us. "Just got an owl from Ollie," she squealed. "We'll be seeing you at the Yuletide Invitational."

Harry looked vaguely green at that, but I couldn't tell if it was because someone had called Wood "Ollie" or if he was not looking forward to seeing our common enemy at all during the holidays.

"Brilliant," he said with false cheer. "It'll be good to see Oliver again."

"Fancy a wager?" she asked.

"No, no," I drawled. "We wouldn't want you to embarrass yourself."

Before she could say anything else, I pulled Harry onto the steps leading to the platform and dismounted before the train even stopped moving.

"Oi," Ron called. "You in some kind of trouble with the professors?"

"Escaping a silly midget," I corrected, shoving my rucksack into his chest so I could hug Hermione. "You two keeping out of trouble?"

"Fairly," Hermione said lightly. "You?"

"Never," I assured her.

"Good," she said.

Harry hugged her in turn, muttering something about wishing she were around for proof-reading. Finally, we pulled apart and headed for the barrier.

"We'll be home in short order," Hermione announced. "If we can just catch our Floo appointment..."

"So," Ron interrupted. "You've been treating my sister right?"

Harry caught my eye and grinned broadly before answering. "I wouldn't dare do anything else."

Ten minutes and a mouthful of ash later, I staggered out of the fireplace at the Burrow. Predictably enough, Mum brushed me off before crushing the life out of me, but after three and a half months of Hogwarts craziness, it was definitely good to be home.

"You look a bit peckish," she said disapprovingly. "I thought they fed you at that school."

"They feed us well," I stated, "but you'd look peckish too if you had to fly three nights a week and worry about NEWTs."

"Not to worry," she said as if she hadn't heard me. "We'll set you right by the new year. And as for you, Harry..."

I edged past her to hug Dad. "Don't listen to her," he advised. "You look well."

"Thanks." I glanced around. "Where are the others?"

"Percy's at his flat in London," he informed me. "He and George will be Apparating here tonight. Charlie's wrapping presents in his room and Bill and Fleur are at the market. You and Hermione will be in your room and the rest...well, we'll find a place for them somewhere. Not to worry."

I hugged him again, glad to hear something as familiar as his good cheer. "I've missed you."

"Put your things upstairs," Mum ordered as she finished lecturing Harry. "I'll have a proper meal for you once you're done."

"I'll help," Hermione volunteered, seizing my hand and pulling me up my own staircase.

She waited to interrogate me until we had reached my room and closed the door, but no longer. "How are things, really?" she demanded. "I know Harry can be a bit difficult..."

"We can both be idiots," I corrected her. "But we're doing all right."

"All right?" she echoed.

"All right," I sighed with a broad smile. "We're doing brilliantly, but don't let McGonagall know."

"I would have thought that she likes seeing her students happy," Hermione pointed out.

"She likes her students to be happy on her terms," I amended. "What about you? Has Ron finally learned the rules of courtship?"

"He has a few funny ideas about what those are," she conceded, "but yes, we're doing brilliantly on our own."

"Girls," Mum bellowed. "I thought you were coming to breakfast."

"I had enough mince pies to feed Grawp," I confided.

"Don't worry," she answered. "That's what Ron's here for."

We headed downstairs and left the confessions at that.


	6. Chapter 6

There wasn't much Christmas cheer this year, but that was to be expected. It was the first real holiday we'd had since Voldemort had fallen and the Burrow was crowded as usual, but there were too many people absent for it to feel familiar. I couldn't expect a trick bottle of perfume from Fred or to play Exploding Snap with Tonks after pudding. Teddy tried his hand at it the last time we visited, but it's not really a game for someone still in nappies.

Still, no one blamed Mum for crying over the jumper that she'd made in March for Fred, Dad getting choked up at breakfast or George for not being his usual self. Bill and Fleur arrived about an hour after Percy had arrived, both looking inexplicably pleased with themselves and bringing Gabrielle.

By Christmas morning, Hermione and I were sharing a room with Crookshanks and Arnold. Harry, George and Ron were crammed into Ron's room and the young marrieds were enjoying one of the two private spots in the house at Mum's insistence.

I woke up on the holiday with Crookshanks laying affectionately over my mouth and purring. He took a swipe at me when I tried to shove him off and it was another half minute before Hermione called him off.

"Merry Christmas," she called over her shoulder as she let him out. "Your Mum said breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."

She gave me another reminder eight minutes later, but I attacked my hair with a hairbrush, put on my fluffy slippers and trudged down to the kitchen to enjoy the usual spread.

The boys mumbled something along the lines of "Happy Christmas," either too tired to speak clearly or having their mouths full of chipolatas. Harry only kissed my cheek--he fell into the latter category—but he pulled out my chair for me.

"Eat quickly," Mum encouraged me after shoving a plate nearly into my lap. "Dromeda Tonks would like to pop 'round at noon and I want the sitting room presentably by then."

"So, Gin," George said conversationally as he passed the toast to me, "you don't _really_ want to go to the Invitational, do you?"

"Did you get Bludgered again?" I retorted. "I've been working on the face-painting charm for weeks."

"And I'm not going without her," Harry added loyalty.

"I wasn't thinking of taking _you,_" George retorted as he rolled his eyes in Harry's direction. "You're not my type."

I inhaled a bit of orange juice and Harry blinked his way through what should have been a witty comeback, but which came out as something along the lines of "Nrghl."

"I should hope not," Mum interjected. "Eggs?"

"Don't mind if I do," he said solemnly.

"You're out of your mind," I informed my loving older brother.

"I'm not," he protested. "You always went with Fred and I thought it might be nice if I relieved you of the need to bring up painful memories."

This sounded altogether like a rehearsed speech. That could only mean that someone considerably more good-looking than Crookshanks was involved.

"I see," I said flatly.

"Only I've got a date with Angelina…"

"_No_."

Really, I had nothing against the girl, but His Holiness was _not_ going to use Quidditch for romantic purposes. That was _my_ privilege.

"I'll see what you think after we open presents," he said confidently.

Not likely. Five minutes later, I found that he had invented a trick brassiere and donated the self-shrinking prototype to my Christmas loot. I cheerfully jinxed him while Mum was modeling her new apron from Hermione and repeated my negative answer. She didn't notice until she realized that he answered every question with "Nimbly-pimbly-timey-wimey." She had thought it one of his usual clever jokes.

The rest was a pretty decent haul. Hermione got me a Muggle book called _Half Magic._ Fleur and Bill got me a Gift Galleon from Madam Malkin's so I could get a new set of dress robes. Dad had been charged with choosing his and Mum's gift to me and proudly presented me with a toaster. From Luna, I got a necklace with a pendant in the shape of a nargle—she said it was a protective charm. Ron got me a new Cannons poster and a box of Ice Mice.

Harry's present was less than romantic—he had bought me a complete broomstick servicing from Quality Quidditch Supplies—but it was one of those strangely endearing gifts that showed he had a good head on his shoulders. I wouldn't have known what to do with something fancy.

Teddy and his gran turned up just after we'd finished clearing up the mess. Mum cooed over Teddy and everyone from George to Fleur took turns with him. Eventually, though, Harry claimed his privileges as godfather and we took him upstairs for some entertainment. In a house full of moping adults, it was difficult to find anything suitable for a baby, but he finally got interested in a slightly wonky toy wand that had been mine when I was six. Harry settled on the bed with his back against the wall and I propped myself against the wall with my feet in his lap.

"Once he's older, I want to take him at least a week each summer," Harry commented. "Mrs. Tonks thinks it's a good idea."

"Well, yeah, now that you're not chasing after dark wizards, you've got a perfect home life," I said with a laugh. "You _have_ stopped that, right?"

For some reason, he blushed. I pulled the wand out of Teddy's mouth before he could zap himself, but then raised an eyebrow at him.

"What?"

"Well, actually…"

"_What?_"

"Nothing like that," Harry said quickly. "It's just…"

"What?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"Professor McGonagall wants me to sit for my NEWTs at the start of the new term," he said hastily. "Hestia's probably not going to stay for more than a year and they both think I should try for the Defense Against the Dark Arts position."

"That'd be brilliant," I said, immensely relieved; I'd thought he was chasing after some wannabe Death Eaters or something. "Well done."

It might have been counting OWLs before they arrived, but Harry was passing all of his NEWT classes with flying colors. Even if he didn't do brilliantly, they would be idiots to not give him the job.

"I know," he said, still red in the face, "but some of the blokes at the Aurors' department have been owling me."

Okay, so that explained just about everything.

"Oh."

It was everything he'd wanted out of a career and something he'd worried about every time exams came around. If they were courting him already when they hadn't even seen his NEWTs results, this was a _very _good sign.

"Wow," I said finally.

Harry just nodded and used the toy wand to levitate Teddy's favorite teddy bear an inch off the ground. His godson clapped delightedly and made a grab for the wand so he could try it himself.

"I guess it would depend on what _you_ end up doing," he said.

Now it was my turn to go red. It was the first time he'd said something specifically along those lines. Usually, my profession of choice was like the wedding date—looming in the future, but not exactly pinned down.

"Well, I've got a while to think about that," I said, "but Dad's been commuting to work for years. No reason one of us couldn't do the same."

Harry grinned endearingly. "My thoughts exactly," he said.

Before either of us could continue that conversation, the door burst open and Ron came in, looking as if he owned the place.

"Quidditch," he announced. "I've convinced Hermione to try her hand at Chasing and Dad's going to Keep for my team. Are you lot interested?"

"And Mum and Gran Tonks probably want 'dear Teddykins' back, do they?" Harry chuckled.

Ron grinned back. "I don't think they'd mind taking him off your hands," he agreed. "What do you say?"

I hadn't had enough private time with Harry, but we had the whole holiday break ahead of us and I could probably convince Bill to let me play Seeker.

"You're on."

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The Yuletide Invitational, Uncle Bilius had explained, was one of the oldest traditions known to the Quidditch world. It had originated when two feuding teams had agreed to take a break until the New Year and had lost their patience around teatime on Christmas. They had found a convenient meadow in the Codswalds and played the first Invitational in 1392. Back then, the spectators had been family members who were exasperated with the inability of men to leave well enough alone for a week.

These days, the Invitational was sold out at least nine months in advance. Season ticket holders had first priority, but were not guaranteed their seats unless they booked theirs as soon as the tickets went on sale. Dad had taken a day off from the Ministry last January to stand in line for the ones that we were using today.

The Christmas cheer never quite managed to wear off by the time the Invitational started. Since the ushers were on holiday as well, it was customary to bring anything from corned beef sandwiches to a full-sized roast goose to snack on. Mum had let us bring enough leftovers for a six-course meal, but only on the condition that we dress warmly. This meant that we had waddled to the Apparition point in several layers of clothing and tried to Apparate when we could barely move. It had taken a few tries, much to Ron and Charlie's amusement, but we finally made it to the stadium in plenty of time to find our seats.

By the time we had stripped off several overcoats, two jumpers and our gloves, the rest of the seats around us had filled. I stuffed the excess clothing into the Expanded handbag that Hermione had given me for my last birthday and just had time to say hello to all ten of the Darymples before the lanterns in the stadium dimmed and the roaring of the crowd increased as if someone had applied a _Sonorus_ charm to the whole crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards," the announcer bellowed, "welcome to the 1998 Yuletide Invitational, featuring the world-renowned Chudley Cannons..."

The crowd screamed even louder, even though it went without saying that they weren't renowned for _winning._

"And last year's League Champions, the Tutshill Tornadoes!"

As usual, the Cannons' fans raised their wands and fired off a sound that closely resembled a hippogriff passing gas. It was our special welcome for our favorite rivals.

"Playing for the Cannons, we have Gregorovitch..."

I turned to Harry and extended a leg of mutton. "For starters?"

"Sure, thanks," he replied.

I found a sizable piece of fruitcake to nibble on while Darby, the man who had been announcing for eighty-three years, finished announcing the teams. Finally, the two team captains shook hands and the whistle blew. Immediately, the teams kicked off and took up positions. The Quaffle went to the Cannons, but halfway up the pitch, a Bludger caught the tail end of Miller's broom and she dropped it into the waiting arms of Saddlemore.

The Tornadoes scored thirty in the first five games—they liked to rush into things and waste their energy early. By the time ten minutes were over, we had gotten possession of the Quaffle back twice, but they were ahead 60-0.

"Is this usual?" Harry shouted over the disapproving boos.

"We're going to hit our stride soon," I said confidently.

Thirty minutes, forty points and three penalty shots later, I said the same thing, but I didn't sound as convinced.

"This is nothing," Frank Darymple assured Harry. "I saw them come back from 200-0 to win a game eight years ago."

"Yeah, and they won by 10 points just this year when they caught the Snitch first."

Speaking of the Snitch, it was nowhere to be seen. Someone behind us had already complained that they were just trying to hold out until the _real_ competition started.

Just then, Adelaide Ambrose deflected the Quaffle in front of the hoops and it went straight back to Gregorovitch. He avoided two Bludgers and a sabotage attempt by one of the Tornadoes' Chasers...

"YES!"

100-10 and we were back in the game. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.

"The Snitch," Harry yelped.

Yes, the Snitch had been spotted, just above the head of the Tornadoes' Seeker. He was looking around wildly for the thing while it practically bounced on his curls and the rest of his team hollered things that couldn't be heard over the roar of the crowd. Knightley dove towards the ground as if she had spotted it somewhere near the ref, which drew a huge groan from the Tornadoes fans. Maybe now they would realize that their team was simply too stupid to win this thing.

By the time Knightley finished her feint and accelerated towards where the Snitch had been circling near the goalposts, it had disappeared and the Cannons had scored twice. The Tornadoes retaliated by scoring five more times. We booed appropriately and Harry offered me a sympathetic watercress sandwich.

"And it's the Cannons in possession," Darby yelled. "Ambrose to Gregorovitch, Gregorovitch to Fairbanks...Fairbanks to Gregorovitch, he SCORES! 150-30 with the Cannons still in possession as Fairbanks catches the Quaffle once more..."

But no, Saddlemore had intercepted a pass and did some of his usual showy flying until he scored again.

"Saddlemore passes to McLaren. McLaren narrowly misses a Bludger from the Cannons..."

The other Bludger smashed into McLaren's side, knocking him practically into the stands. Immediately, the whistle blew and Saddlemore saw McLaren safely to the ground so the mediwizards could take a look at the Chaser.

"Well," Harry murmured, draping an arm over my shoulders. "This _is_ getting exciting."

"This is nothing," I informed him. "They always put on a bit of a show at these things. They're in high spirits after the holiday."

Unfortunately, the high spirits let the Tornadoes score ten almost uncontested goals by the time the next penalty shot—one awarded to the Cannons when a Tornadoes Beater tried to give Ambrose a concussion—was awarded. I was going hoarse already and it wasn't even two hours into the game. Harry was looking crestfallen.

"Come on," he groaned. "They could put up more of a fight."

Immediately, three Darymples smacked the Boy Who Lived in the back of his head with their programs.

I was too busy watching Ambrose and Gregorovitch race for the Quaffle to object to either his pessimism or their abuse of my fiance. They were almost there, within scoring distance of the hoops...

And then they both pulled up short, each politely letting the other make his move. The problem was that _no one_ made the move and the Quaffle dropped through them, was just out of reach for Fairbanks and Saddlemore grabbed it easily for a long shot at the goal post...

"260-40!" Darby howled. "I don't believe it! The Cannons just hovered there and did _NOTHING!"_

"They can't possibly be serious," Harry lamented. "At the pace this is going, they're going to wear themselves out before they can make a comeback."

"It's never going to happen," Maggie snapped. "Our boys have _stamina! _They have grit! They have me to reckon with if they lose! They're not wearing themselves out."

Well, that wasn't exactly true. Ambrose was still a little wobbly after her encounter with the Beater's club. The Keeper had been knocked senseless twenty minutes ago. The score wasn't helping things.

"They're never going to make it back," Harry informed her. "Unless the Tornadoes..."

"270-40 AND THE CANNONS ARE IN POSSESSION ONCE MORE..."

"...Lose their focus, even catching the Snitch won't help them much."

"They've come back from worse than this," I lied. "They just need to steer clear of..."

"280-40!"

"Saddlemore and those Bludgers and they'll be back on top in no time!" I finished defiantly.

When the score reached 300-50 ten minutes later, I didn't bother repeating my motivational speech.

"All they can hope for is to lose gracefully," Harry muttered when he thought I wasn't listening.

Suddenly infuriated, I turned in my seat and stuck a finger practically up his nose. "LOOK," I snapped, "I'm not taking any more of that. They're going to win this thing whether you believe in them or not. They wouldn't do this to us."

"It's hopeless," Harry argued. "They're 250 down and it's not getting any better!'

"It's been worse," Lilian echoed my earlier sentiment. "Don't be an idiot. If you think they're not worth cheering for, I bet you'd look _lovely_ in blue."

"Yeah," Frank added. "Black and blue..."

"Shut up, Frank," we all said.

"I'll bet you they win," I said firmly, "and I'll enjoy seeing you lose the bet."

He obviously didn't like being at odds with me, but this was a matter of personal honor on my part.

"Fine," Harry responded. "What are the stakes?"

"If they lose, I will service your broomstick myself," I informed him.

Someone sniggered behind us.

"And if they win," he prompted.

"And when they win," I announced, "we're..."

Really, I hadn't contemplated this yet. It had to be something appropriately...well, something that people would do in a moment of insanity. That was usually the state of fans after this kind of comeback.

By this time, our usual seat mates were paying more attention to us than to the game. I vaguely heard that the Cannons had scored again, but was still scrambling for an idea.

And then it came to me. It was one of those strokes of genius that can only be described as perfect.

"When they win," I announced, "we elope tonight."

In Harry's stunned silence that followed, Darby announced that it was now 310-70.

"Officiants don't usually stay open this late," Maggie interjected.

"Ambrose is a justice of the peace," Charlie, Ambrose's biggest fan, countered. "I bet she'd do it if we asked."

"Yeah," Maggie said encouragingly. "Plus Harry's not bad-looking at all. We might let him persuade her..."

I was still watching the man to whom I had just basically proposed. He was looking something like a fish out of water and Lilian was looking ready to smack him again for keeping me waiting.

Finally, his stunned expression faded and he grinned nervously while looking almost hopefully at the scoreboard.

"You're on."

It was 330-70 before the Cannons seemed to get their second wind back, but suddenly, the defense seemed to remember that they'd been hired for a reason. Ambrose seemed to have started predicting every pass so that more often than not, she was able to intercept. Gregorovitch started hanging onto the Quaffle as if he had a Permanent Sticking Charm applied to the thing.

And then, when we were 330-180 and I had utterly lost my voice to excitement, something horrible happened. It started with a wild pass from Saddlemore to McLaren that almost knocked the Tornadoes' Seeker off his broom. He rolled to avoid the pass and then started heading as fast as he could towards the ground. It looked at first as if he'd lost control of the broom and was going to crash...

"AND FAIRBANKS INTERCEPTS, STREAKING UP THE FIELD WHILE SEEKER MICHAEL MAGLEBY STRUGGLES TO KEEP CONTROL OF HIS...NO, I THINK HE'S SEEN IT! KNIGHTLEY'S IN HOT PURSUIT..."

But she wasn't fast enough. Magleby was inches away while she was still trying to get within arm's length...

A Bludger smacked him in the back so that his hand swatted the Snitch away instead of catching it. It smacked into Knightley's palm just as the Quaffle passed through the Tornadoes' middle hoop. There was a moment of confused silence...

And then the scoreboard changed first to 330-190 and then...impossibly...330-340.

I threw myself against Harry since we were already on our feet and shouting incoherently at each other.

"I TOLD YOU SO! I TOLD YOU SO!"

"I CAN'T BELIEVE IT! I CAN'T BELIEVE IT!"

I kissed him hard, trying to celebrate and forgive him for being a doubter all at once. He returned it while the rest of the crowd worried about their own celebrations.

Finally, when we couldn't kiss any longer and still stay conscious, we pulled apart and grinned like idiots. Harry's hair was even more tousled than usual and I'm sure my face was the color of a Gryffindor flag.

"So," he said finally, "shall we go talk to Ambrose?"


	7. Chapter 7

_Note: Props go as usual to Kateydidnt who is, as always, the first one to read this either in the wee hours of the night or after I've typed up a few pages at her house. Last night, she whipped me into shape and helped a great deal with dialogue._

CHAPTER 7

Ambrose was in her usual spot on the east end of the pitch, signing souvenir bludgers and taking photos with anyone who would ask for one. The crowd parted, since most of the fans who hung around her were the type to respect Harry, but we kept back until the crowd had thinned considerably. This, of course, meant that Harry had to shake twenty hands and take five photos with the usual type who wanted proof that they had hung around a Quidditch stadium with the man who defeated Lord Voldemort. Harry took it with his usual slightly exasperated good humor and by the time the last fan had left, we were nearly alone.

It was then that Adelaide Ambrose turned and spotted us. The hand that had been signing Ambrose with a flourish instead scribbled absent-mindedly somewhere to the left of the Quaffle.

"Miss Ambrose," Harry said politely, "I'm Harry and this is my fiancee, Ginny."

She responded with a completely untranslatable "Yeaaghennrnnheeeeeeeeeeee..." that might have been a "Nice to meet you" or a Gobbledegook curse and sort froze in shock.

"First, brilliant job in the game tonight," he said, just in case she thought he didn't know her. "Really, that one save off Saddlemore was one of the best I've seen."

"Nnnnnnnnnnghhhhhhhhhh," Ambrose wheezed in response.

If this was how she was going to be for the wedding, I would just as soon let a disgruntled merman do the honors. He would probably be more coherent.

"But actually, we're here for a different reason," Harry concluded before Ambrose could swallow her own tongue. "See, we've decided to elope tonight and we thought it would be great if you... Are you all right?"

Ambrose was doubled over and muttering "Can't breathe!"

In exasperation, I conjured a brown paper bag and handed it over. Harry considerately waited a few minutes so she could catch her breath. Finally, flushed and looking vaguely shell-shocked, she straightened up.

"Go on," she encouraged shakily. "You were saying?"

"Yes," I said. "I heard you were a justice of the peace and we were wondering if you'd marry us."

She still looked a bit punch-drunk, but she grinned broadly. "I'd love to," she blurted out. "You want to do it now?"

Now, that was a tricky question. There were enough people around that the _Daily Prophet _would probably hear about the moment we finished. I didn't want Mum to hear about our wedding from Rita Skeeter or anyone of that sort.

"Well, we do need to make a few preparations," I stated.

"Such as picking your bridesmaids," Maggie teased me.

"And your best man," Frank added. "You got to have one of 'em."

"Well, he's not my first choice, but Mr. Marks is the only one around here who _didn't_ brain me with a program," Harry pointed out. "He'll do in a pinch."

"In a pinch?" Lilian scoffed. "We're practically family, you know."

Harry grimaced at that and I remembered that all he had was a group of people who fell into the category of "practically family." I, on the other hand, had five remaining siblings who would have various reactions to the fact that they hadn't been invited. From the look on his face, he was thinking the same thing.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Harry asked quietly. "I'm perfectly willing to wait until tomorrow..."

"Are you trying to back out?" I challenged in my very best Mum/Quidditch Captain voice.

"Not at all," he protested. "I just...well, I know how much your family means to you. If you want them here, we can hold off a bit."

It was very sweet and typical of Harry to think of that. I rewarded his thoughtfulness with a very affectionate kiss, then pulled back and patted him lightly on the cheek.

"We're not waiting."

Harry kept one arm over my shoulders as we turned back to Ambrose. She had finally remembered how to form complete sentences, but was still watching us as if we were an extremely entertaining play.

"We're doing this now," he said firmly.

"Brilliant," Ambrose answered. "Now, I've got a few parchments you've got to sign before we can get on with this. We could even do it in the locker room if you fancy some privacy."

Now, _that_ would be a story to tell the grandkids—how we eloped in the Cannons' locker room the same season that they finally won the League. I turned to Harry to encourage the idea, but stopped at a glint in his eye.

"I've got a better idea," he announced.

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"You're home a bit late."

I suspected that my mother was never quite going to grasp the fact that all of her children were now adults. She still enjoyed being the disapproving Mum who waited up for us.

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley," Harry said politely. "The cannons won 340-330 in a _very_ exciting game and we got caught up in a bit of the celebrating."

Mum sniffed immediately as if she could smell firewhiskey on our breaths, but she had no idea what exactly our version of 'celebrating' had been. God willing, she wouldn't for a few days.

"Fancy a spot of tea before bed?" she offered once she'd assured herself that we hadn't done anything unseemly like getting raucously drunk. "I was about to put on the kettle."

"No, thanks, Mum," I said hastily. "Are Ron and Hermione still up?"

"They just played a very loud game of Wizarding chess," she sighed. "Honestly, that boy and his games."

Well, we Weasleys all had a bit of a competitive streak. It's what got us into most of our messes in the first place.

"I'll tell them to keep it down," I lied.

"All right then," Mum said. "Good night."

I let go of Harry's hand long enough to give her a quick goodnight hug and a peck on the cheek. Harry let her squeeze him affectionately and then followed me upstairs without another word.

Ron was sprawled on my bed, feet kicking the wall as he contemplated the fate of his king's bishop. Hermione looked up with a smile as soon as we entered; she was probably grateful for the distraction.

"Hi, there," she said brightly. "Did you have a good game?"

"Brilliant," Harry said enthusiastically. "You should have seen the end of the game. I haven't seen something that wild since the Quidditch World Cup."

Ron rolled dramatically onto his back and let out a wordless groan. "And i missed all the excitement," he groused. "How do you get all the luck?"

"I'm dating your sister," Harry pointed out. "I think good luck comes with the territory."

He was definitely feeling sentimental. Hermione looked vaguely envious that there was a male out there who knew how to say sweet things without much prompting. Ron rolled his eyes at the fact that anyone was being all soppy and romantic over his little sister.

"Besides," I added as soon as Ron had moved his bishop, "you didn't miss all the excitement."

"Oh, no?" Hermione asked blandly, regarding a pawn. "Did you bring back the Cannons for a replay?"

I nearly laughed at how close she was to the truth. "Come on," I invited. "We wanted to take a walk."

Ron and Hermione, used to bizarre requests from anyone associated with Harry, did very little arguing. Hermione pulled on her overcoat over her flannel nightgown and stuffed her feet into a pair of trainers. Ron mostly layered things over his pajamas while plying Harry for information. By the time he had finished bundling up, Harry had told him about everything but the bet. We cracked the back window open and started climbing out without further explanation. Luckily, Ron and Hermione trusted us enough to follow.

"So," Hermione asked pointedly as soon as we had climbed down the trellis to the back garden and were tiptoeing towards the gate, "where are we going, exactly?"

"Well, we'll have to Apparate there," I explained. "It's a bit of a walk."

Ron and Hermione exchanged very nervous looks, but eventually seemed to decide that we weren't the sort to play pranks in three inches of snow after midnight. They were far too trusting, but it was only a short Apparate to the hill overlooking Ottery St. Catchpole.

We arrived between the Darymples and the Markses, but that little hilltop was getting quite crowded and Hermione looked suspicious at the motley crew of people who had turned up on half an acre of patchy grass.

"What's this all about, then?" she demanded. "Are we off on some sort of expedition and are you expecting many more?"

Pragmatic Hermione was probably wondering more about whether she should have packed a good book than whether or not we were up to no good.

"Only one more," Charlie informed her. "Adelaide said she'd be along in a moment..."

That was a bit of an understatement. Before either Ron or Hermione could speculate on who Adelaide was, the entire team Apparated practically on top of us.

"Hope you don't mind," Ambrose said cheerfully. "When I told the others where I was going instead of the victory party, they insisted on tagging along."

Fairbanks turned to Ron and extended a hand. "I expect you're the brother of the bride, then?"

Hermione gasped loudly, but Ron blurted out "Brother of the _what?_"

I glanced at Harry. Harry shrugged at me. I looked to Ambrose in hopes that she would take the lead.

"As I understand it, Harry and Ginny decided to elope tonight."

"During the game," Maggie added.

"On a bet," Lilian concluded.

"Really," Gregorovitch said. "He think we not win or something?"

"Something like that," Harry said sheepishly. "I thought it was a pretty good deal. She would marry me tonight if her favorite team won. I had honorable intentions."

"Honorable intentions, Merlin's beard," Ron snorted, his ears looking red even in the moonlight. "You do realize Mum's going to kill us, right?"

"Mum will get over it," I insisted. "We'll take our chances with her temper for now."

Hermione had gone from gasping to glowing and was looking as if she had just finished reading a lovely fairytale. "Oh, Ginny," she sighed. "I can't believe it'll just be the lot of us..."

"From the looks of it, you invited the whole stadium," Ron pointed out.

He was getting surly, but I couldn't tell if it was because he was annoyed with the situation or if he was mad at himself for not having guessed the secret before.

"You don't mind, do you?" Harry asked in a respectful tone, suddenly the outsider asking for acceptance. "If you really think this is a bad idea..."

_Then we'll Apparate somewhere else and get married in a marsh in Mauritania._

Ron shook his head and ran a hand through his hair once, twice and then three times. "You know Mum's going to kill us."

"I know," I agreed, "but we want to do this and we wouldn't have gone ahead without you two."

Ron finally stopped looking as if he'd swallowed a double dose of Skelegro and grinned before punching Harry lightly in the arm. "You're braver than I am," he commended him.

With that settled, Hermione did a good impression of a boa constrictor and nearly hugged the life out of me.

"Oh, I wish we'd known," she lamented. "I shouldn't be at your wedding in my nightclothes and trainers."

"At least you changed out of your fluffy slippers," Ron chortled.

The bride and groom weren't much better. I was in my jeans, Christmas jumper and topcoat and Harry was wearing a Cannons jacket over a t-shirt and jeans. Of course it wouldn't do for a Weasley and a Potter to do things the _normal_ way.

"Are we ready, then?" Ambrose asked, rubbing her hands together to keep them warm.

"Definitely," Harry said. "The witnesses have to sign the certificate."

"Ron, Hermione," I prompted.

Hermione was past her exuberant phase and was getting weepy at the thought of her best friends getting married, but she managed not to cry on the wedding certificate. Their serving as witnesses served a dual purpose—we would always remember the most important people who had turned up for the ceremony and if Mum needed someone to blame, she could start there.

"Dear friends," Ambrose began as Harry took my hand in a vise-like grip. "We are gathered here in the presence of these witnesses, many good people and six squirrels to bear witness to the union of two noble souls, Harry James Potter and Ginevra Molly Weasley."

My heart started racing and the urge to smile took over my face so that by the time she got to the end of her speech about "uniting in purpose and in love," I was grinning like an idiot. I quickly glanced at Harry and was relieved to see he was looking just as wonderfully goofy.

"Are there any reason that those here can think of that these two should not be wed?"

"Your Mum's going to kill us," Harry murmured with a wink.

"Mum's going to kill us," Ron agreed.

"Mrs. Weasley doesn't have to know just yet," Hermione said in a moment of uncharacteristic deviousness.

Ambrose paused and looked suspiciously at the bride, groom and supposedly supportive friends. "Are those objections?"

"No," I said hastily. "Just valid observations. Go on."

There was a good deal of tittering from the guests and Frank muttered something that I didn't want to translate.

"Harry James Potter," Ambrose said finally, "do you take Ginevra Molly Weasley to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in health and in hexes, for richer or for poorer, when with Muggles and magic folk alike, whether or not the Cannons are on top of the League, for as long as you both shall live?"

It wasn't exactly the conventional vow, but it was the kind of question you could ask reasonably on a wintry hilltop at midnight. Harry didn't hesitate but a heartbeat before answering.

"I do."

Hermione blew her nose noisily and was echoed by Charlie, Lilian and Maggie in three part harmony. Typical.

"And do you, Ginevra Molly Weasley, take Harry James Potter to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, in health and in hexes, for richer or for poorer, when with Muggles and magic folk alike, whether or not he believes we'll take the League, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I do," I said immediately.

"Then I declare you bonded for life," Ambrose said solemnly. "You may k..."

Neither of us bothered to wait for the end of that sentence. Our first kiss as husband and wife reminded me, of all things, of the haphazard, furious kiss that we had finally shared after the Quidditch final in his sixth year. It was without fear and without reservations, just as our love would always be.

It was not the way Mum would have wanted it, but it was perfect all the same.


	8. Chapter 8

We had come back from our post-midnight 'stroll' grinning like idiots and half-terrified that Mum would be waiting up for us. The most reassuring noise that we heard as we skipped the creaky third stair was her dull snoring. Hermione told us nothing about what she intended for our wedding 'present' except to say that we should each pack an overnight bag and trust Ron to remember the address.

He took Harry first with Side-along Apparition and didn't reappear at the Burrow for a good five minutes. I figured that he had either gotten lost or was giving his new brother-in-law a Talking To, man to man and all that rubbish. When he finally turned up, he was grinning in a self-satisfied way.

"Took you long..."

"Shh," he hissed. "With all this Apparating, someone's bound to wander out to see what all the noise is. Do you want to make it easier for them?"

"You know," I said, "if you'd done a Portkey it would have been easier."

"Yeah," he agreed, "but I had to make sure my best friend knew the rules of being married to my baby sister first."

"I don't think you can call me your baby sister any more," I informed him, taking his offered arm. "I'm Mrs. Potter."

Ron shuddered theatrically, but he was grinning too hard for it to seem like he ojected. "That's going to take some getting used to," he confessed. "Harry has himself a missus. You ready?"

I nodded. "I was wondering when you'd stop stalling."

Most of my familiarity with London came from trips to Diagon Alley, visits to Dad's office or the need to visit Harry when he was at Grimmauld Place. Underage witches don't get out much without a chaperone when it comes to the Muggle world, so when I landed on Tottenham Court Road, I had no idea why Harry gave Hermione a nervous smile.

"There aren't any spare Death Eaters or revolting cappucinos waiting for us, are there?" he asked lightly.

"Not that we're aware of, even if you probably would run into them with your luck," Ron chortled. 'It was 'Mione's idea."

"We thought you deserved more privacy than what we could arrange at the Burrow," Hermione explained, practically glowing. "There's a lovely hotel near here and there was only one receptionist on duty, so it wasn't very difficult at all to _persuade _her to book you into the honeymoon suite."

Hermione made her methods of persuasion slightly ominous when she'd probably just handed over a few Muggle Galleons or given the poor woman a guilt trip for having hesitated. Either way, I was fairly sure she hadn't done much that her mother would have disapproved of.

"Brilliant," Harry deadpanned, "but won't your Mum wonder..."

"Well, we're going to cover for you," Ron interrupted, slinging an arm affectionately over my shoulders. "You're supposed to meet up with those Muggles of yours today, so we'll just swear on a stack of Lockhart books that you both left early to take care of some business."

"And if she decides to check on us in the night?" I challenged.

"Well," Hermione said with an unsuccessful attempt at keeping a straight face, "it wouldn't be the _first _time the ghoul did a Weasley impression."

I had to laugh at the idea of the ghoul with waist-length red hair and a supernatural attempt at imitating my nose. Harry looked less convinced.

"Are you sure it's all right?" he asked. "You two have done enough already."

"Stop worrying about it, mate," Ron ordered. "I stood between you and a mass murderer and chased down cursed jewelry with you. Don't think I wouldn't face down Mum for you after that."

It went without saying that sometimes, Mum in a rage could be scarier than even a half-mad mass murderer, but Ron was unswervingly loyal most of the time. We had no reason to think he didn't mean it.

Harry finally grinned as idiotically as Ron. "You have a point there," he conceded.

"Besides," Ron said as we set off, "it's what brothers do for each other. Now that we're really family, it's the least I could do."

I had the feeling that if either of them were the hugging type, they'd be doing that. Hermione was certainly getting misty-eyed.

It was a ten-minute walk to the Langham Hotel and Ron spent most of the time giving Hermione a play-by-play of his conversation with Fairbanks as if she hadn't been standing right next to him. With her usual patience, she endured every minute of it and only rolled her eyes twice. Maybe I wasn't the only girl who was utterly smitten around here.

"Here we are," Hermione announced as we came into sight of the Langham. "We'll expect you back in time for dinner, but you two...enjoy yourselves."

We turned to answer her, but with a pair of loud cracks, she and Ron Disapparated. In their place, Hermione had left her beaded bag. I picked it up and heard something clinking and sloshing ominously around inside. Almost afraid to look, I prised it open and reached in.

"Butterbeer," I announced once I'd extracted the first bottle. "I suppose she doesn't want us bothering the Muggles for room service at this hour."

"And it looks like she's packed in half the leftovers from Christmas," Harry added. "How thoughtful of her."

"Indeed," I said, fighing a smile. "With all this, we could forget about lunch with your Muggles."

He wrapped one arm around my waist and pulled me a little closer. "They're your Muggles, too, Mrs. Potter."

He was leaning in for a kiss, but I pulled away with a grimace. "You couldn't have mentioned that before the vows?"

He laughed and kissed me anyway, just for a moment. It was one of those gestures that promised there would be a lot more to follow.

"Come on," he said. "We haven't got all night."

"Well, technically, we do," I corrected.

I returned the kiss, but made it linger a lot longer so he would regret having teased me. The expression on his face when I broke it off suggested it had worked marvelously.

"Come on," I suggested. "Let's check in the newlyweds."

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We awoke late the next morning, of course, and with only thirty minutes to get from downtown London to Little Whinging. This might have been a problem for anyone who had to drive or something ridiculous like that, but it just meant that we had to get ready in a hurry and we nearly left the hotel wearing each other's socks and pants. I was pretty sure the Muggles would dislike me in the first place, being a witch and all, but that would have just been in bad taste.

We Apparated to Mrs. Figg's backyard, as she'd already made us promise to drop by. We called a hurried "hello" to her and the cats before heading for the Dursleys'.

"Harry," the horse-faced woman who could only be Aunt Petunia trilled, "how lovely of you to come."

Either she was putting on a show for the company or she'd been on the wrong end of a Cheering Charm. She finished hugging Harry and went for me next, but I couldn't quite make myself hug back. Instead, I sort of patted her awkwardly on the back and squirmed away as soon as I could.

"You must be Jenny Beasley," she said enthusiastically. "Harry said you might come."

"It's Ginny," I corrected. "Ginny..."

I glanced at Harry and he nodded in permission and encouragement.

"Potter," I concluded.

Dudley, who had been in the process of lumbering down the stairs, missed a step and nearly fell. Harry turned and grinned.

"Hey, Big D," he said cheerfully as if we had not just dropped a bombshell. "All right there?"

"You can't be serious," Dudley blurted out.

"When did this happen?" Petunia added.

"Well..." He grinned a bit sheepishly. "Last night."

"And you didn't invite your only family," she sighed. "I really had thought that we were past..."

"We didn't invite _my _family," I pointed out; there was no point in getting into an argument over who had wronged whom in this house. "It's a bit of a long story."

She finally regained some of her normal color and even gave up the martyred expression. "Well," she said with false cheer, "why don't we sit down and you can tell us everything."

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"That went well," Harry reflected as we strolled through the yard to the Burow.

"Neither of us hexed anything, there were no shouting matches and I think you even got Dudley to smile," I recounted. "I think it went well, too. It was slightly disappointing."

He turned and arched an eyebrow. "Disappointing?" he asked.

"I was really hoping for an excuse to shove them both into the closet under the stairs for a while," I confessed.

Before he could react to that, Mum opened the door and bustled out, looking flustered but hapy. "It's about time," she said hurriedly. "Bill and Fleur will be here at any minute and I could use a helping hand in the kitchen. Ginny, go mind the stew. Harry, could you see to it that everyone has silverware and get Ron to help?"

"Yes, Mum," I muttered.

As was typical for a Weasley dinner, Mum kept us busy until everyone had been served and then took charge of the conversation.

"Harry, you must tell us how things went with your relatives," she commanded. "We haven't seen you two since the match."

It was a fine time for my ears to turn red, but I had my hair down, so I doubt if anyone noticed. Harry took my hand under the table as if he could tell that I was nervous about where and when our news would break.

"It was nice," he said politely. "I think absence actually made Aunt Petunia's heart grow fonder, but I also think it's a good thing that we cleared out before my Uncle came home from work."

"Good for you," Dad said. "It's best to take these things one step at a time. I remember when we decided to make amends with Muriel..."

"Let him finish talking, Arthur," Mum said a little sharply. "And your cousin is well?"

"Quite well," Harry assured her. "He's going to a trade school and has been seeing 'a sweet young thing' named Olivia since August."

"How lovely," Mum said before passing George the mashed potatoes. "And how was the match? It must have run long—we expected you back before we went to bed."

"Well," I interjected, "you know how celebrations can go. The Cannons won by ten points and we got a bit carried away."

It was as good an explanation as any, but a moment later, Harry's hand tightened around mine. Before I could stop him, he opened his adorably big fat mouth and said the one thing I had hoped to hold off until Mum was out of reach of a steak knife.

"Actually, one of the Chasers married us after the match."

There was a clatter of silverware and then a silence so profound you could practically hear the dust resettling.

Bill was the first to speak. "We were going to make an announcement of our own tonight, but I don't think we should steal the spotlight."

"No, by all means, steal the spotlight," I urged, glowering at Harry. "There's not much more to say."

"Oh, yes, there is," Mum said stiffly. "You did this without consulting any of us?"

"Ron and Hermione were there," I protested. "We weren't looking for permission."

"Not that you would have gotten it," Mum sniffed. "Marrying at your age...neither of you are even out of school!"

"We're both of age and if I recall, you eloped as well," I pointed out.

"Well done, Harry," George said approvingly, waving his fork as if it were a noisemaker. "You couldn't have told _me?"_

"I didn't want any Puking Pastilles handed out as promotional party favors," Harry said apologetically. "Besides, it was hard enough smuggling the witnesses out of the house. You would have wanted to set off a Dungbomb as a diversion."

"Fair enough," George conceded.

"I can't believe Charlie's missing this," Bill commented to Fleur, who was looking surprisingly pleased with the news. "You'd think he'd come back just for the traditional post-Christmas row."

"Well, Percy's not her either," I reminded him.

"Because he's usually been the _subject _of the post-Christmas row," Ron added around a mouthful of Cornish game hen.

"They know what they're doing," Dad was saying to Mum. "You can't deny that they're both more mature than we were at their age."

"Yes," Mum said in a slightly choked voice, "but they're just children."

"We'll always be your children," Bill pointed out sagely, "but like it or not, even the baby in the family's grown up. Welcome to the family, Harry."

"Quite right," George agreed. "Always nice to have another brother."

"I think they've done no wrong," Dad concluded. "Yes, it would have been nice to be there, but you can't ask for a finer son-in-law than Harry Potter."

Mum made a sudden lunge that made me want to go for my wand, but instead, she hurried around the crowded table to hug the life out of both of us.

"Oh, I wish you'd told us," she sobbed. "My little girl, _married. _I can hardly fathom it."

"Bill," Dad called down to the other end of the table, "get everyone some mulled mead and then tell us what your news was going to be."

"Well, it's in the same vein," Bill stated as soon as he'd fetched the bottle and taken his seat again. "We're also going to be adding a member to the family."

"Don't tell me you're getting a dog," Ron groaned. "That place is small enough without it."

Ron was being typically dense and ignoring the obvious.

"Not a dog," Bill corrected with a roll of his eyes. "It'll be about six months before he or she comes along, though."

My jaw dropped. "You're having a _baby," _I accused.

"You up and got married," he countered with a grin. "I'm not sure what's more surprising."

"I'm going to be an uncle," Ron said in a slightly awestruck voice.

"I'm going to be a Grandad," Dad added cheerfully.

"This is going to be a madhouse," George commented. "More beans, Harry?"

Finally, Mum had someone else to sob and sigh over. Dad took charge of the mulled mead so Bill and Fleur could fend her off.

"To fine new additions," Dad announced, beaming at the lot of us. "May there be many more to come."


	9. Chapter 9

Harry worried me on the last day of holidays by going temporarily missing. He'd been there when I finally fell asleep, but when Mum roused me for breakfast, he was already gone and no one seemed to know where he'd ended up.

We'd gotten permission to Floo back to Hogwarts at noon and by quarter to, he still hadn't turned up. At 11:55, though, I heard a loud crack in the garden and he came strolling through the back door a minute later.

"I thought we'd have to leave without you," I informed him without bothering with a greeting.

Harry kissed me by way of apology when Mum wasn't looking. "Sorry," he said mildly. "I had an errand to run in London."

I didn't mind his method of apology at all, so I decided to forgive him. Not bothering to check if Mum was chaperoning—we _were_ newlyweds after all—I kissed him hard.

"Don't do it again," I requested.

He nodded, then reached into his jeans pocket and removed a keyring and two old-fashioned keys and handed it to me. Having grown up around wizards, I wasn't used to a need for such things and I arched an eyebrow.

"What's this?"

He tapped the smaller of the two, a gold key. "An extra for our Gringotts vault."

Of course. My Muggle Studies teacher would have called this a joint checking account. As if I had anything to contribute.

"And this," he said more dramatically, "is the spare key to Number 12 Grimmauld Place."

He looked at me expectantly after saying that. I suppose he thought I should have been swept off my feet by something like that, but I was just confused.

"You know," I said politely, "I _could_ just _alohamora_ it and be done."

He grinned, not offended but looking both amused and exasperated. "It's the _principle _of the thing," he explained. "Where I come from, it's a bit of a milestone when you give your girl the key to your flat."

It was my turn to grin, but I probably looked a bit sheepish. "Sorry," I said blithely. "OWL-level Muggle Studies didn't cover anything about Muggle courtship rituals."

Harry wrapped an arm around my waist and kissed me again. "Don't worry," he said more seriously. "I think you've got the hang of it pretty well, myself."

"Come on, then," Mum interrupted. "You shouldn't keep the Professor waiting all day."

I rolled my eyes and pulled away. Harry gallantly shouldered my rucksack and gestured to the fire.

"After you, Mrs. Potter."

I grabbed a handful of Floo powder and cast it into the fire. A few seconds later, I stepped out of the fireplace in McGonagall's office and began dusting myself into the fireplace. Harry arrived a few moments later, spluttering.

"Hey," he chided. "Next time, please don't use me as your dustbin. Hello, Professor."

McGonagall glanced up from the papers she was marking. "Hello, Potter, Weasley," she said before returning her attention to the parchment. "Good holidays?"

"Yes, Professor," we chorused out of habit.

"Good."

She set aside the parchment and looked up again. "Potter," she continued, "I need to have a word with you about one of the students. Miss Weasley, if you could wait outside, we won't be but a minute."

I supposed this wasn't the time to tell her to stop calling me Miss Weasley. I obediently took my bag from Harry and left the office.

Since most of the students were due to arrive on the train at 7:00, the corridor was pretty well deserted. I nodded to the Bloody Baron when he passed, but as usual, he didn't return the favor.

A few minutes later, the door opened to reveal Harry. "Professor," he called over his shoulder while winking at me, "I don't want to take up much more of your time, but I do have one more question for you."

"Yes, Potter?"

He beckoned me in and shut the door as soon as I'd stepped into the office. I steeled myself for the worst and let him take the lead.

"Well, Professor," Harry said, "I have a concern about my dormitory."

"I understand it's difficult to share it with younger students," she recited, "but you have always worked well with others and I am confident that after having faced the Dark Lord, a snoring roommate would be no problem."

She probably thought he was having one of the petty problems that everyone at a boarding school had at one time or another. Little did she know.

When Harry didn't respond, she sighed and tried something other than the standard answer. "Is there something about your dormitory mates that concerns you, Potter?"

"Yes," I interjected. "I think they'll object if I move in with him."

Professor McGonagall's expression darkened considerably in a way that she usually reserved for people who cheated at Quidditch and students who Dungbombed her office. "I agree completely," she said stiffly. "These may be modern times, but we believe in maintaining a certain level of propriety in the student dormitories."

"As do we," Harry assured her. "I just think it unfair for my wife to sleep in a different end of the tower from me."

It was the first time I'd seen McGonagall speechless, but her hand jerked so hard that she knocked a bottle of red ink onto Dennis Creevey's Transfiguration essay. Right on cue, there was a hiss of noise behind us and another of the students who had been given permission to Floo back stepped out of the fireplace.

"Hi, Professor," the third-year said cheerfully. "Thanks for letting me in."

"Welcome back," she said blankly.

The student seemed to notice that she wasn't in the mood for a chat and beat a hasty retreat. Harry and I stood, grinning nervously while McGonagall turned four different shades of red. She stalled by siphoning the ink off the essay.

"Well," she finally said with obvious reluctance, "there are no rules that prohibit students from marrying each other…"

"And I'm not a full teacher, so it's not inappropriate for me to marry a student," Harry added.

"…And you are both of age. I suppose it would do no good to owl your parents."

"Especially since we eloped," Harry agreed. "They know, of course, but it wasn't their idea."

Her color went back to normal, but she still looked annoyed. We had done something that, while she disapproved of it, she could not do a thing about. There wasn't even a reasonable chance that we'd get detention for being young newlyweds. At least I thought there wasn't.

"This is _highly_ irregular," she informed us.

"I'm sorry," I lied, "but if you prefer, we could find ourselves a flat in Hogsmeade."

That did it. McGonagall didn't like the idea of us being married, but from the way her mouth pinched and her face turned purple, she obviously liked the idea of us being married without supervision even less.

"Absolutely out of the question," she declared. "Mr. Potter has earned himself one of the quarters reserved for staff and the one that shares a common room with Professor Sinistra is available. I trust that will be large enough for the both of you?"

It was better than having to take the one by the Slytherin dungeons and it would at _least_ give us some privacy. Besides, Astronomy lessons were at night, so since I wasn't bothering with that class, we'd have the evenings to ourselves.

"Thanks, Professor."

She stood and drew herself up to her full height, taking control of the situation again before speaking again. "I shall inform Professor Sinistra of the change once she has returned from the holidays," she stated. "It is on the fourth floor behind the painting of Artemis Adelaide and if I'm not mistaken, the password is 'Pisces.'"

Well, clearly she wasn't going to give us her blessing or even congratulations, but I thought her closing remark was a bit much.

"I will give you both detention for life if you even _think_ about reproducing in my House."

At least we knew she was back to normal.

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We knew it was bound to get eventually out that we'd tied the knot, but we didn't expect to have Professor McGonagall announce it at the first dinner of the new term. When we arrived at Potions, we found that someone had put "Just Married" signs on our regular seats. When I got to Quidditch practice, I found that shoes and streamers had been tied to the handle of my broomstick.

Luna Lovegood was the first to get over the shock of our newlywed status and presented us with a studeroot. According to her usual logic, it was meant to ward off the grousprites that the latest issue of _The Quibbler _claimed were responsible for marital spats.

I wasn't about to let anyone throw me a bridal shower, but after a week of finding random gifts and nasty letters from Romilda Vane's crowd in various places, we finally decided to yield a bit to popular opinion.

"A housewarming party usually implies that we have a house," Harry pointed out as soon as I'd suggested the idea after dinner one night. "We've got…half a common room, one bedroom and a very small loo. I can't see us having half the school in for a party."

"It's still ours," I reminded him, "and unless you count the six butterbeers we shared with everyone after the match, we never _did_ have a reception."

Harry rolled onto his side to look at me with a sigh. "You know I don't enjoy people gawping at me."

"Yes, but they'll be gawping _and_ bringing us presents," I stated reasonably. "And they'll be gawping at me, too."

He smiled and ran a hand along my arm affectionately. "As long as that's all they'll be doing, I guess that's all right."

"And by invitation only," I agreed.

Harry nodded. "No Slytherins, Vanes or lovestruck third-years allowed?"

He was catching on quickly. "You drive a hard bargain," I groused.

"All right," he conceded. "We'll let in Profesor Slughorn as the token Slytherin. Is that good enough?"

It was a pretty good idea. Slughorn would try to draw more attention than us.

"Deal."


	10. Chapter 10

McGonagall had been kind enough to give Harry a few weeks for exam preparations, but he had to look forward to a full week of NEWTs starting on February 2. Since I was worried about my own marks, our honeymoon phase mostly consisted of us holding hands over really large books in the library until Madam Pince pointedly doused all of the lanterns. It wasn't exactly romantic, but we at least got to be miserable together.

By the time the end of January rolled around, though, we ate, slept and studied and were too exhausted to do anything else. When the house-elves put up the usual notice for the Hogsmeade visit on Valentine's Day, Harry blinked blearily at it and then just tore it down.

I hated seeing him like this—he'd been through enough in the last year without worrying about answering questions that Dumbledore himself probably didn't know how to work out. So I sent off three owls on the last Tuesday of January and called for reinforcements.

Early on, we'd agreed that on Fridays, we would sneak food up to our rooms and have some time to ourselves. Harry was good enough to nick a roast, mashed potatoes and a loaf of bread on the way back from the library, but he promptly dropped it when Ron, not I, opened the door. Hermione immediately caught it with a deft flick of her wand and levitated it to our magically-expanded coffee table.

"Surprise," Hermione called cheerfully. "Ginny said you could use some moral support."

"Too right," Harry blurted. "How…when…"

"McGonagall let us Floo from the Leaky Cauldron," Ron explained. "We had tea with Hagrid and had a good laugh at Hestia's boggart lesson and now here we are to bother you."

"As long as you don't mind talking about nothing but Potions," Harry countered. "This is a _brilliant _idea."

He reiterated that when the others weren't looking. It was the first time in a week and a half that he'd smile, so I guessed that we could count it as a success.

"Actually, we have that covered, too," Hermione announced.

She reached deep into her schoolbag, which was now built around the same charms as her beaded handbag, and rummaged around. There were several loud thuds and Harry went slightly paler at the thought that she had _more_ massive books for him to read. Eventually, she pulled out a stack of paper.

"Two-on-two trivia," she explained. "Ginny and Ron versus Harry and myself. Whoever gets the most right gets to choose dessert."

"You're on," I laughed. "Shall we flip a Knut to see who goes first?"

Harry waved a hand indulgently. "We'll let you have that honor," he stated solemnly. "You'll need the head start."

I stuck my tongue out at him as Hermione Conjured a scoreboard and a piece of chalk that hovered expectantly as she extracted the first flashcard from the stack.

"The five incantations for the Fidelius charm, Ginny. One minute."

I got that just under the time limit—it took me a while to remember the modification to the Unplottable Charm—and the chalk started tallying. Harry got the twelve uses of dragon blood right and the game was afoot.

Naturally, between my studying and Hermione's unnatural smarts, we stayed neck and neck through the mashed potatoes and roast. The number of cards dwindled and it looked as if we'd have to call in Flitwick for a tie-breaker. But when Harry slipped up and mispronounced the Self-Replicating Spell, he wound up with a pair of forks that kept cloning themselves and then disintegrating. Unfortunately, I forgot two of the ingredients of the Lugubrious Libation and we went back to a tie.

Then Ron mixed up the properties of daisy roots and gurdy roots, which Harry blamed on post-traumatic Slughorn disorder. If he got the next question right, he would win. I picked up the final card and just grinned.

"NEWT level my foot," I snorted. "What is the incantation for the Patronus charm?"

"We were robbed," Ron groaned.

"You stacked the deck," I guessed.

"Oh, don't be such sore losers," Hermione chided with a grin.

"Wait a bit," Harry insisted. "I haven't _answered _yet. Who's to say I'll remember that?"

I lobbed a spoonful of leftover potatoes at him. He graciously took them in the face, then scourgified his glasses.

"Er, let's see, _Expecto Patronum?_"

"Chocolate gateau?" Hermione suggested. "Or Kreacher said they might have some leftover pie."

"One of everything, of course," Ron commanded. "I need a bit of comfort food."

"C'mon, then," Harry urged. "I'm still starving."

It was nice of him to give us time for catching up. I hadn't seen Hermione since Christmas, though she sent weekly owls. They were full of news about her job in the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, the equivalent of entry-level in the Magical Law Enforcement Department. It had been a while since we got to have one of those long, sisterly talks that we'd indulged in over the years. But Hermione being Hermione, she got right down to business once the boys were out of the room.

"_Muffliato."_

I arched an eyebrow, wondering what she wanted to keep Professor Sinistra from overhearing. She just shrugged and tucked her wand back in her jacket.

"Nothing wrong with a little privacy," she commented. "How are things?"

"You mean other than having a husband who looks less alive than an Inferius at the end of every day?" I shot back.

"It'll be better after the NEWTs," Hermione assured me. "He just wants top marks so the Aurors will take him."

"I think they'd be barmy not to," I snickered. "'Sorry, Mr. Potter. Well done on defeating the Dark Lord and all, but you only got an E in Potions. Really, we thought you were _intelligent!'_"

Hermione smiled at that. "I think their recruiters will invent a technicality to let him join even if he gets a T in Defense Against the Dark Arts," she pointed out. "They've had their eyes on him for a couple of years."

"Have you heard anything?" I asked eagerly.

"Nothing specific," she said, "but I run into Kingsley fairly often and you know his opinion of Harry. If it were up to him, he wouldn't have had to pass his OWLs to get a job offer."

"Yes, but Harry wants to get in on his hard work, not his reputation," I reminded her.

"Which he will," she insisted. "Between the DA, our adventures last year and your help, he's more prepared than even I could make him."

"I think he's starting to realize that," I confessed, nodding at the forgotten stack of flashcards. "Thanks for that."

"It was better than sitting him down and interrogating him," she said before stuffing the cards back into her bag. "What about the rest?"

"The rest?"

She glanced around as if to make sure that we weren't being overheard, then fixed me with a pointed look. "Are you being _careful?_"

The fact that she had muffled us and waited for the boys to be out of the room meant that she wasn't referring to security protocols. Not the normal kind, anyway. It was only slightly less mortifying to have my best friend question my sexual habits than my mother.

"_Hermione!"_

"It's your choice of course," Hermione lectured, "but you might want to hold off on having chil…"

"Hermione, even if McGonagall hadn't threatened us with various forms of painful death if we reproduced on her watch, she made me go to Madam Pomfrey on my next break," I stated. "Harry and I aren't in any hurry to expand the Weasley family and I don't want to take my NEWTs with morning sickness. I'm on a twice-monthly potion and we're not even _thinking_ about that until we're out of school."

"Sorry," she said, looking relieved and appropriately pink. "I had to ask."

"No, you didn't," I countered. "I've already got one Mum and all those brothers."

Luckily for me, one of the aforementioned brothers burst through the door with a towering pudding in one hand and a pumpkin pie in the other. Hermione ended the spell with a mutter and jumped up to help.

"So, are you coming to the party?" I asked.

"Are you kidding?" Ron asked around a mouthful of biscuit. "We get to be out after hours here and Filch can't give us a single detention. I'd come just for that."

"Besides," Hermione added, "George scheduled the opening of the Hogsmeade store for that weekend. We promised to help out with that."

"Think he could use two extra sets of hands?" Harry suggested.

"It can't hurt to ask."

"I already did," I interjected. "He said if we can spare a few hours, he'll leave the Dungbombs at home."

"Sounds like him," he mused. "It's a date, then."

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Harry barely spoke to me for the next week, but that had more to do with how quickly he fell asleep each night than any marital problems. When he finally trudged out of Slughorn's dungeon on Friday, smelling of shrivelfigs and with a smudge of armadillo bile on his nose, I was waiting. We kicked the prefects out of the bathroom for an evening, set Peeves to the task of keeping Moaning Myrtle distracted and enjoyed a long, hot bath.

It took us both a week to recover from that, but by the time Saturday arrived, we were back in our good spirits. Harry was very patient with all the customers who gawped at him and blocked his way while he was trying to get to the stockroom, I got to man the till and we might have stayed there all night if George hadn't threatened to hex us if we didn't have a "proper romantic dinner" before everyone else invaded. We went to the Gryphon's Club, the kind of restaurant that we'd never gone to because students couldn't usually afford that sort of fine dining, and then headed back to the castle to get ready for the party.

It was supposed to start at eight, but Luna turned up at half past seven and promptly started lecturing me on my missing protective charms.

By the time the party got into full swing, I completely lost track of both time and Harry. He'd been cornered by Slughorn at the same moment that Professor Sprout came to give me our housewarming gift. Once I'd found a place to put it that wouldn't endanger the other guests, I went in search of my husband.

I hadn't noticed Kingsley enter until I saw him standing next to Harry. It was a sign of our good judgment that our guests had the good sense not to harass the Minister of Magic. Both Harry and Kingsley were looking very serious and Harry caught my eye before waving me over urgently.

"Hello, Kingsley," I said genially. "Good of you to come."

"I'm here on a bit of official business first and as a friend later," he said solemnly. "Harry's exam results came in today."

Oh, so that's why he looked like a kicked kneazle. Oh, no. After all his hard work…

"I need your advice," Harry said quietly. "Hogwarts wants me to take over the Defense Against the Dark Arts post and the Aurors want me."

It wasn't that much of a surprise either way, but my jaw still dropped on hearing it first. I hugged the life out of him for about a minute while he laughed in a choked, relieved sort of way. I would have congratulated him more properly, but the Minister of Magic _was_ watching and we actually liked this one.

"If it would ease the difficulty of the decision," Kingsley interrupted, "we were hoping to hire Ron Weasley as well."

Now, _there_ was a scary thought.

"Really," Harry blurted. "That's...with Hermione in the Ministry as well."

"It would be like letting Grawp vacation in a gnome colony," I added to be helpful.

"Quiet, you," he chided affectionately.

"Just look what you did to it the last time you invaded," I reminded him.

"Extraordinary circumstances," Harry rationalized. "On the other hand, Hestia really _should_ stay on the job for a few years. Just because she can."

"So, you'll take the job?" Kingsley interjected. "Once you've left Hogwarts, of course."

"I would be honored to," Harry said enthusiastically. "Sir. Thank you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Potter," he said. "Now, if you'll point me in the direction of a butterbeer…"

He didn't need to say anything else, since Slughorn honed in on his availability and accompanied him to the refreshments table. I took advantage of the lack of hangers-on to kiss my successful husband as long as was appropriate in a crowded room.

"Congratulations," I whispered.

He came back for afters just as Ron and Hermione came around to be nosy.

"What happened?" Ron asked. "iNo one/i's that happy after talking to Kingsley."

"Exam results," Harry said.

Ron smirked. "Is it usual for the Minister of Magic to bring the bad news?"

"Only when he wants to give me a job," Harry said. "He says the Auror department has a couple of openings."

Hermione shrieked loudly enough to deafen half the room and Ron started thumping him on the back as if trying to save him from choking. I just kept out of the way and grinned.

"Well, I was hoping to keep it quiet," Harry said, "but thanks to the lot of you, I think people in Hogsmeade have heard."

"Well done, mate," Ron hissed. "I'm getting some butterbeer and we'll toast it."

He headed off in the same direction and was immediately collared by Kingsley, who looked only tpp happy to escape Slughorn. Hermione was still beaming as if she'd been named Head Girl.

"Hold on," she said suddenly, her eyes still on Ron. "You said they had a couple of openings in the Auror department."

Ron looked wildly around to Harry, a sort of shell-shocked expression on his face. Then he looked back to Kingsley and I could read his lips.

i"You're barking."/i

"I think Ron just got some good news, too," I commented.

i"Yes, I'll take it, but you're barking! With all due respect. Thanks."/i

That was Ron with his usual tact and self-restraint. Merlin help any dark wizards he ran across.

"No, Hermione," I said casually, "there aren't any openings left in the Auror department."


	11. Chapter 11

I learned long ago that there's no keeping secrets in the Weasley family. Honestly, I have no idea how Fred and George managed to get away with so much other than to say that it was very hard for Mum to interfere when they were in _Scotland._ And as long as we steered clear of Percy and his Head Boy duties, we could usually avoid the unpleasant stuff.

Tonight, though, was a special occasion. Mum and Dad had both come up for the housewarming bit, dragged Percy along and between the three of them, they would be unstoppable.

Harry caught me looking nervously in Mum's direction and then glanced at Ron who was looking conspicuously and simultaneously thrilled and mortified while talking with Hestia.

"I have this second sight," Harry murmured. "My years of practice in Divination let me intuit that someone's going to leak my job offer to the _Prophet."_

"Not one of them," I protested, nodding at our friends and family. "And I haven't seen a single beetle all month."

"Yeah, but someone in the Auror Department or maybe Human Resources might," he pointed out. "Do we want to tell your Mum now or let her find out from some stupid headline like 'The Boy Who Worked'?"

Now that he mentioned it, I was surprised we hadn't heard about it from Rita Skeeter. "Now," I decided emphatically.

I grabbed Ron by the collar as we passed. "'Scuse us, Professor," I called cheerfully over my shoulder. "Ron has some pressing family business."

"Oh, no," Ron spluttered. "She won't leave me be all night if I tell her now."

"Go on, then," I encouraged. "Or would you rather her give you a lecture on completing your education?"

Jackpot. Ron wasn't about to let Mum lay into him on that one. He went slightly pale for a second, then turned beet red.

"All right," he muttered. "Here goes."

Mum was in floods, of course. Dad went as red as Ron with pride. Even George only called him "ickle Ronniekins" once and put him in an affectionate headlock for "turning into Percy on us."

After telling Mum, as predicted, there was no keeping the secret. Such an emotional display could have only meant that either Ron had made up for dropping out of Hogwarts or had finally asked Hermione to marry him. More importantly, it meant that for a little while, Harry wasn't the center of attention. It wouldn't last, but while everyone was thronging around Ron, I grabbed Harry's hand and pulled him off to a quiet corner for a congratulatory snog.

"You don't mind, do you?"

"What, mind my brilliant husband getting hired for the thing he was practically _born _to do and hauling us off to glamorous London once we've graduated?" I nudged him with my shoulder and grinned. "I'm furious."

"Well, I had intended to give you more of a say in it," Harry pointed out.

"Yeah, but I could have objected right there and then."

"You're not Ron," Harry chuckled. "I just wanted to make sure you hadn't agreed to it just because Kingsley was the one to ask."

Well, there _was _that, but Umbridge could have asked and I would have found an excuse to support it.

"What, are you mad?" I said in all seriousness. "I couldn't be happier for us."

He gave me another kiss and took his time with this one. When he pulled back, he had an odd sort of grin on his face.

"I just realized something," he explained. "Your Dad's had to work under Auror direction before. Ron might have to give _him_ orders someday."

I tried to imagine this, but was torn between thinking of the Howler Mum would send if ickle Ronniekins got out of line and Ron stuttering over instructions to his own father.

"Yeah," I drawled. "I'd like to see him try."

As predicted, the news was out the following morning, with "an inside source at the Ministry" confirming that Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, heroes of the Battle of Hogwarts, had been recruited as the newest members of the Auror's Department. There was some scattered applause when we joined the Gryffindor table and a good deal of back-slapping from friends, but Professor McGonagall uttered my favorite reaction.

"Potter," she commented. "Dolores Umbridge would be _horrified."_

It was as close as I'd seen McGonagall get to being sentimental. Harry looked as if Dumbledore himself had uttered the masked congratulations.

"Thanks, Professor."


	12. Chapter 12

A Hogsmeade weekend was always something to look forward. Most of the people my year had long outgrown the novelty of nipping into the Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer or stocking up at Honeydukes, but Harry and I were exceptions. For one thing, we felt more than a little indebted to a certain barman at the Hog's Head and liked to stop in for a chat. For another, it was nice to get away from all things related to schoolwork.

Mostly, I enjoyed the excuse to visit Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. George was still doing a brisk trade in all things that went 'boom' and we liked to stop in to be guinea pigs on occasion. So far, I'd even field-tested Spattergroit Solution (developed in Ron's honor), Tonsillitis Trifles (got me out of my oral report on cross-species transfiguration until McGonagall caught wise) and the Portable Parlor. That was my favorite of George's latest developments, since it fit in my pocket and had set up a lovely sitting room in the Charms corridor. where Luna and I had enjoyed a leisurely afternoon tea to the consternation or amusement of seventeen total passing students. George hadn't been chuffed about the idea of extending Harry's investor benefits to the lone Weasley girl, but he gave in and wrote them off as 'tester freebies.' I liked those better than the 'gallons of galleons' that he promised on the adverts.

This weekend, we were stocking up for an important event. Quidditch was more important than NEWTs and Transfiguration combined and there were two vital matches coming up.

"We don't know we'll have to deal with Slytherin again," I called over my shoulder to the rest of the team who had tagged along, "but we have to be prepared. Remember that they put the Ravenclaw Keeper out of commission just so they wouldn't have a chance against Hufflepuff. We've got that same Hufflepuff team next week and I don't want _anyone_ to turn up in the hospital wing with radishes up their nostrils."

"Ah, the joys of amateur Quidditch," George sighed as he rounded the counter. "What are your first-strike options?"

"We officially don't have one," I informed him. "Much as I'd love to hex Warrington to Brighton and back, McGonagall will have my head if I do."

"Warrington?" he asked. "He's not still there, is he?"

"Little brother," I snorted. "Built along the same lines, but not as intelligent. He's a third-year Chaser."

"I've got just the thing," George assured me. "Oi, which of you lot are Beaters?"

Jack and Miriam raised their hands and George immediately collared Jack, hauling him off to the trick sweets corner.

"I knew it was a good idea to come here," I murmured to Harry.

That was a bit of an understatement. George took it upon himself to hand-pick things for each player and even gave them an employee discount.

"Anything to promote House unity," he said loudly as Professor Vector passed by in search of a Decoy Detonator. "If a teacher catches any of you with the you-know-what from you-know-where, don't blame it on me. I was looking the other way and just rang you up."

"We'll only use our powers and powders for good," I said solemnly. "Owl me if you need a hand with testing or the till one of these weekends. McGonagall has officially revoked my curfew."

"That's not as much fun as violating it," George groused, "but well done. I think she has a soft spot for you."

"Wishful thinking."

I left six sickles in the tips jar for his help and after a quick hug, I joined the rest of my team outside. "Clear off," I advised. "We don't want to _look_ like we're conspiring or we might look like targets."

They weren't terribly good at looking innocent. All three Chasers legged it for the Three Broomsticks, glancing furtively around as they stashed bags in their pockets. The Beaters did manage to split up, though, and my Keeper went back inside to chat up my older brother. I was tempted to drag her off by the ear, but she was only fourteen and didn't really know any better yet.

"So," Harry said cheerfully as he stowed his own supplies away. "Fancy a butterbeer or should we say hello to Aberforth?"

"We could always share a quiet snog at Madam Puddifoot's," I teased. "Fancy a tea?"

He grabbed my hand and threaded it through the crook of his arm before responding. "There's a three-match series this weekend against Holyhead," he announced as if I had talked about anything else for the last couple of days. "Would you like to go on a second honeymoon?"

"Second?" I echoed dubiously.

"All right, first," Harry chuckled. "We can take off after Double Potions on Friday and be back in time for your Defense Against the Dark Arts class on Monday morning."

"I don't know," I confessed. "It's not a home match and I haven't even checked to see if there are…"

Harry produced several sheets of parchment with a flourish. "Tickets?"

"Really?" I was feeling more excited than I had in weeks, but he didn't seem to be joking. "You just figured I'd be interested?"

"I just figured you're still the Ginny who has a poster of Gwenog Jones at home and hasn't been to a match since we eloped," Harry corrected. "I haven't got _all_ of the arrangements made, but that's easy enough."

"It's a brilliant idea," I commended him before kissing him for his thoughtfulness. "I've never even been to Holyhead."

"We camped near there last year," Harry commented, "but I can't say we spent much time watching Quidditch."

There were a lot of places that seemed to fall into that category, but it wasn't surprising, given Hermione's cautiousness. "Well, then we'll have to give you some new memories of the place," I decided. "Sure we can't skip Potions?"

Harry laughed. "I would've been surprised if you hadn't asked, but no. You can't skive off Potions."

"Come on," I wheedled. "Slughorn has a soft spot for both of us and we'd get there in time to see a proper Welsh sunset."

"Because the other two nights won't have them," Harry responded. "Your NEWTs are still coming up and I don't want to incur the wrath of Hermione Granger."

Much as I hated to say it, I wasn't one to cross Hermione either, but that didn't make me happy. "Killjoy," I muttered.

"Guilty as charged." He leaned in so his mouth was next to my ear and dropped his voice. "If you have to stay after class, we might be late getting there. Then we'd have to go straight to bed."

It was decided, then.

"I'll have about thirty questions about last week's test," I promised.

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Thanks to Hermione and her connections, we found a lovely room at the Wavecrest. It was a guest house near the railway station that was much more like us than the posh place we'd used for the wedding night. It was also owned by a former Hufflepuff who had both Muggle and non-Muggle sitting rooms.

The next moring convinced us that we should risk the Muggles. As soon as we walked in the door, we spotted a _Daily Prophet _article that was either written by Rita Skeeter or someone who thought they could make a name for themselves on their own. As soon as I spotted the headline ("The Boy Who Cheated: Tests, Triangles and Tricks"), I politely incinerated it and turned around.

"Let's see what's new in the _Daily Mail,_" I suggested.

"What's wrong with the _Prophet?" _Harry asked, his expression darkening a little.

"Nothing a fly-swatter couldn't fix," I growled. "Let's stay away from Rita Skeeter, shall we?"

He cast a look at a balding wizard whose nose was buried in the paper and his dark expression turned a little more threatening. "Yes," he said, "let's."

We enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the other front room, where the most scandalous thing mentioned was a MP resigning. The man who brought it up tried to get us involved in the discussion, but I didn't pay attention to any politics outside of the Wizengamot and I focused on my chipolatas as if I hadn't eaten in weeks. I had my mouth full when the man's wife tactfully changed the subject.

"So, brother and sister out for a holiday?" she asked in a chipper voice.

"Newlyweds," Harry corrected just as brightly.

"_Newly_weds?" she asked, sounding slightly scandalized. "But you're just…"

"We're both of age," I said now that my mouth was clear. "Really, we've known each other for ages."

"Leave them be, Margaret," her husband groaned. "They're not much younger than we were."

"That's what you say about everyone, David" she rejoined.

"Are you here on holidays?" I asked pointedly, hoping someone would change the subject.

"Visiting my sister," the man replied. "You?"

"We'll be seeing the sights," Harry said. "We'd look in on the Hotspurs, but we're out of season."

"Yeah," David said. "If you come back later in the year, you'll have a time getting tickets. Ever since they won the Welsh Alliance League…"

And they were off. I didn't know much about football clubs, but we could keep a conversation about sports going from here 'til Boxing Day.

We did see the sights that day. Since we didn't want to see everything local at once, we took a long walk along the breakwater before taking the ferry across to Dublin for lunch. By the time we took the ferry back and visited St. Cybi's, it was time to make our way to the outskirts of town for the Harpies' game.

I was used to seeing fellow fans at away games, but didn't expect to find half of the Darymple clan sitting behind us.

"Ah, the lovebirds," Jean crowed by way of greeting. "Didn't think we'd see you here."

"What is this, a second honeymoon?" Charlie added with a guffaw.

"Research," I corrected. "I'm surprised you're not showing your team spirit."

He was, in fact, wearing a perfectly ordinary set of black robes over his usual Muggle getup. Unlike too many wizards I had known, he had somehow gotten the hang of jeans and a jumper.

"Team spirit?" Charlie growled. "I'll show you team spirit."

He waved his wand jauntily and his cloak turned violent orange while a pack of miniature cannonballs started circling his head, whistling the Cannons' team anthem.

"I stand corrected," I said, half-impressed and half-worried that he'd lose control of the balls and pelt me with them.

He waved his wand again and the cannonballs disappeared. "No sense in showing my hand before the match," he commented. "Now, what's this I heard in the _Prophet _about Harry?"

Leave it to Charlie to congratulate Harry without making him embarrassed. For all of his oddities and the crime of having borne Frank, he wasn't a bad sort. While Charlie kept my husband occupied, I turned to Jean.

"And how are you doing?"

"Splendid," she said. "Would you like to see a picture of my new grandson?"

"Of course."

She whipped out a handful of photographs and displayed a baby who would have been adorable if he hadn't been squalling at the photographer. "Gorgovitch Darymple," she said proudly. "Our Sean knows how to name them properly."

"We're calling him Georgie," Charlie confided over Harry's shoulder.

I couldn't blame them. Their twin boys had been named Dorkins and Galvin after the Seeker and Manager and for some reason, Maeve and Jonas had taken to calling Georgie's older brothers Dork and Gal. I was never letting them near a child of mine.

"He's _darling_," I commented once the picture had paused for breath. "When was he born?"

"January 19," she said proudly. "They're bringing him to the next home match."

Even worse than the idea of naming a baby Gorgovitch was the idea of bringing him anywhere near die-hard Quidditch fans. Before I could find a tactful way to say this, though, the lights dimmed and the Harpies fans started screeching enthusiastically.

"Here we go again," Jean muttered.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's note: If any of you out there are Red Sox or BYU fans, you'll enjoy this chapter. The opening 300 words are a lovely reference to the "Sweet Caroline" tradition. If you don't know what that is, go to a Red Sox home game. If they're winning 8 innings in, you will hear the Red Sox fans singing "Sweet Caroline." As for the 'new' Chudley song by Charlie, you may recognize "Rise and shout the Cougars are out." I had fun writing this chapter because it was more about the fans than the game.

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There are a lot of quirky things in the Quidditch world. Puddlemere United fans wear bulrushes tucked behind their ears. Kenmare has a drink—a variety of butterbeer—that is only served to Kestrels fans after a successful home match and dispensed with an enchanted hose. We the Cannon fans, of course, make the hippogriff-farting noise every time we welcome the Tornadoes.

Holyhead is an unholy terror for a lot of reasons, but a large part of their obnoxiousness has to do with their fan practices. There are loads of catfights, spectators are either very chauvinistic or very defensive of the female team.

And then there's the fight song. Only four teams in the British League have music associated with them and the Tchamba Charmers have a dance to go with it (or a wand routine if you're _really_ adventurous). The Harpies have…well, overload.

It started out as a fan song that would be bellowed badly by some of the more idiotic fans. Then Celestina Warbeck's husband convinced her to perform it at a concert held in Holyhead in 1973. Puddlemere's most avid fan, Stubby Boardman, wrote a parody that became an instant hit on WWN.

The problem is, it's ear-splitting, obnoxious and, as a rule, sung an octave above where it should be. The idea seems to be that if your opponents have had their eardrums shattered, they can't work out things like the position of the Quaffle. Even worse, the Harpies publicity office realized its effectiveness and made up a list of times when it was appropriate to screech the anthem. Now they have songs for flacking, bumphing and even haversacking. Because of an old superstition, if they are winning at the time that they get to 80 points in a home match, they play the Celestina Warbeck song while the players take a break.

This goes a long way towards explaining why most Holyhead home matches are attended Harpies fans. Another factor is the fact that no one really wants to make the trip to Wales just to be deafened.

"We're ready," Charlie confided as the announcer was reading off the player names. "Take one each and when Chudley scores the first time, get ready to use the _Sonorous _ charm."

He quickly passed some sheet music down our row. I stopped Jean before she passed it to someone wearing Harpies robes and then set to learning the song. Beside me, Harry started laughing as soon as he got to the chorus.

"Brilliant," he commented. "What's the inspiration?"

"Something my Squib sister found while watching American football," Charlie responded cheerfully. "Do we want to rehearse it?"

"It might give our intentions away," I pointed out. "And this is a Harpies match. The more off-key we are, the better."

"There are fifty copies of this around the stadium," Miriam confided. "They're in for a bit of an upset."

Upset was definitely going to be the operative word. Harpies were notoriously opinionated—nothing like the average Cannons fan, of course—and we could have a riot on our hands if we timed this right. I wasn't sure whether to be apprehensive or giddy with anticipation.

It was a hard struggle. The Cannons were a bit slow getting their start and we heard "Harpies On the March" four times before we even got proper possession of the Quaffle. That was when Gorgovitch took advantage of a botched Bludger move by Gwenog and streaked up the field with the Quaffle as if it had a Permanent Sticking Charm on it. Of course, he was intercepted by a Dobblebeater Defence and had to be replaced by a reserve Chaser, but the Cannons seemed to get their feet under them after that. Our Keeper blocked four shots in a row before we got the Quaffle again, this time in the possession of Gorgovitch's replacement, Fiona Longbottom (no relation to _our_ Neville).

She was a rookie, but flew with the ease of a bird riding the wind and was small enough to outmaneuver most Bludgers. When one did hit her in the small of her back, she managed to stay on her Nimbus 2000 through her ensuing cartwheel and didn't drop the Quaffle, even with Andrea Unsworth waiting three meters below to catch it. Before she even completed her spin, she reared back and aimed the Quaffle for the left-hand hoop. Just as it was about to pass her fingertips, though, she leaned with her right shoulder to the front and gave it a hearty smack. Before Camille Lefoux could get her recently-acquired French rear to the proper position for a block, the Quaffle soared through the right-hand hoop.

We Cannons fans surged to our feet and I drew my wand out, mutterin "Sonorous" as Charlie raised his arms to conduct.

"_Rise, all loyal Cannons, and hurl your challenge to the foe_

_We will fly_

_Eight miles high_

_In rain or snow_

_Always aiming right_

_Wearing orange so bright_

_While we howl_

_You're on the prowl_

_Come on, Cannons, fight, fight, fight."_

The first hex was thrown around the word "orange," but no one had any idea what to do before then. Security responded admirably if not quickly so that by the middle of the chorus, we could actually sing without being drowned out by banging wands and yelled curses.

"_Oh, rise and shout_

_The Cannons are out_

_We'll win the League and fame and glory_

_Rise and shout_

_Our song will ring out_

_We'll make the ending rather gory_

_On we go to Bludger the foe_

_For good old Chudley's sons and daughters_

_As we join in song_

_In praise of you, our faith is strong_

_We'll raise our wands and never look back_

_We're the fans of the orange and black.."_

Usually, this would be where we did some cheering, but in a fit of insanity, I raised my wand and fired the Tornado salute. Sometimes, the urge just comes over me and I can't be held responsible for what I do.

The next thing I knew, I was staring up at Harry's slightly askew glasses. He was grinning like an idiot and someone had bloodied his nose. Given how much he was grinning, it had probably been a Harpies fan.

"Come on," he said casually, "you're missing all the fun."

I accepted his hand up and handed over a handkerchief. "What happened to you?"

"Bumphing," he said proudly. "We got a penalty and one of the Harpies got sent off for trying to break up the fight herself. It was _brilliant._"

"That's what you get from a Bludger to the face?" I stammered.

"No," Harry replied. "I ducked into the seat in front of me. Glad no one noticed, really."

On the field, Gorgovitch was back in action and took the penalty shot. It only brought the score to 20-50 with the Harpies still in the lead, but it was inspiring anyway. We probably cheered hard enough that he thought he'd win the European Cup.

"Excellent work, everyone," Jean called to those of us within earshot. "Another round when we win?"

"I'm in," I agreed.

A few minutes later, some overenthusiastic Beater action forced a time out. I reluctantly took my seat and used the lull to hold hands with my husband.

"What are the standings?" Harry asked as if he hadn't been following the whole thing in the _Prophet._ "They've only got two months until the League elimination rounds."

"They're third, behind Tutshill and Puddlemere," I said casually. "But we could pull ahead of Puddlemere United if we win all three matches of this series. Either way, if we land second in the British East division, we'll play for first place against whoever's in first for the Division title."

"No worries, then," Harry commented. "This is the best they've done in years."

"Years?" Charlie interrupted. "I haven't seen a season like this since the first war against You-Know-Who."

"We were tied for fourth coming into the elimination rounds, what was it, six years ago?" Jean asked.

"Eight," every Darymple responded in unison.

"Eight," she corrected herself. "Last year, complete disaster…"

"Not their fault," I protested. "Record number of injuries, the potioning scandal and of course the six-week match against Tutshill in February."

"Good point," I conceded. We'd spent a lot of time between Potterwatch broadcasts taking comfort in the fact that Quidditch went on while the whole world seemed to be ending. "And half the players in the League were taking team-sponsored 'holidays' because they were Muggle-borns."

"There were restrictions on the players?"

"They were officially banned from playing," Charlie said solemnly, "but almost all of them were traded abroad or sent to 'mid-season training.' Bloody nightmare getting some of them back."

"Yeah, there was a bit of blackmail involved in getting Gwenog back from the Australians," Jean agreed.

"I think Slughorn was involved."

Harry laughed at my last comment. "I'm not surprised. He would have probably kidnapped her himself if it meant having one of the Slug Club back where he could visit."

The referee's whistle blew and without warning, some Cannons fans across the way fired the salute again.

"I think it's catching on," I muttered, feeling a little mortified.

"Not a bad thing," he answered.

The Harpies did what they did best, unfortunately. Many teams feared them because they were as fierce as their namesakes. When they woke up on the wrong side of the broomstick, there was always hell to pay. Within twenty minutes, they scored five more goals and goaded the Cannons into another penalty. They pulled ahead 110-40, but Harry was smart enough to keep his mouth shut. The last time he'd gotten pessimistic, we'd wound up married at midnight.

Despite all of our hopes and a few more rounds of "Rise and shout the Cannons are out" from various parts of the stadium, we only got to 90-160 before another round of shrieking broke out. It was the rising screech that they did when the Snitch had been spotted and I rocked to my feet, practically falling over the people in front of me to squint at the field.

"C'mon," I hissed "C'mon, Magleby…"

A Bludger slammed hard into Edwards, knocking her off course. I sagged back, weak with relief.

"Longbottom swapped in for Chaser Marks for Chudley. And it's Unsworth with the Quaffle. Unsworth passes to Norwich. Norwich back to Unsw…Intercepted by Longbottom…Merlin's beard!"

We were back on our feet again, straining to peer around the obnoxious Harpiesists. "Here," Harry offered, clasping his hands. "I'll give you a leg up."

I wobbled a bit unsteadily, but managed to brace myself against the seat just as Magleby's toes skimmed the pitch. The Bludgers were headed his way at top speed, but he snatched the Snitch from its spot a few inches above the grass and held it up victoriously.

"AND THE CANNONS HAVE IT!" the announcer roared, barely audible over our own shouts. "240-160 TO CHUDLEY."

I turned a grin on Harry and raised my wand.

"_Rise all loyal Cannons…"_


	14. Chapter 14

In all of my years of attending Cannons games, there had only been a few times when I'd come in contact with the players. Most notable was, of course, our wedding, but there had been the occasional playoff game where fans swarmed the field to celebrate.

Today was the first time that I was going to meet one of the enemy face to face. Harry was quite embarrassed about the whole thing, but the Bludger that he had ducked _had_ been momentarily trapped under his left trainer and that was enough for him to qualify for a prize. As usual, the Beater who had bumphed it would sign the Bludger once it had been tamed by the referee.

"Bloody hell," Lily Frobisher, the player in question yelped. "Did I do that?"

"No, no," Harry assured her quickly. "We were caught in the midst of that…riot."

I repressed a snigger as he straightened his glasses self-consciously. The good thing about his bloody nose was that it distracted everyone from his scar. No one except Ambrose had recognized him so far and she'd been good enough to simply shake his hand instead of announcing his presence on the pitch to the whole stadium.

"I told you to slaughter the opposition, not the fans," Gwenog Jones commented as she sauntered past.

"Sorry," Frobisher responded. "Won't happen again." She extended a hand. "Lily Frobisher. Sorry about the mess."

"I've had worse," Harry said genially. "I'm Harry and this is my wife, Ginny."

She seemed to notice a few things all at once, since her gaze darted quickly between his hair and his glasses. His scar was currently covered, but she probably knew that it was under there somewhere.

"A pleasure." She released his hand and turned to me. "Is he telling the truth? He's had worse?"

"Worst was a cracked skull caused by friendly fire," I explained. "Our Keeper decided to interfere with the Beaters and knocked the Bludger right at him."

_Plus, you know, he survived the Killing Curse, was tortured with the Cruciatus Curse and shared a tent with my brother for a year. He's definitely had worse._

"Well, that's a relief," Frobisher said. "It's the first time I've done that and I'd hate to think I did some serious damage."

"So, I gather that you're not Harpies fans?"

"I'm a Cannons fan, but I have a few favorite players on other teams," I responded. She didn't have to know that I had a poster of her in my bedroom. "I support the Harpies as long as they're not playing Chudley."

"Well, that's understandable," she chuckled. "I have two teams—the Harpies and whoever's playing Tutshill."

"Hear, hear," Harry agreed.

Gwenog glanced at Harry's forehead, having come to the same conclusion as Frobisher, only more quickly. Like her noble teammate, she didn't say anything. In fact, she turned to me.

"I think we've met once," she commented. "Slug Club a couple of years ago?"

I had been determined to play it cool, but having Gwenog Jones, _the_ Gwenog Jones, remember me was enough to make my face match my hair.

"Right," I said, trying to come off casual. "I'm surprised you remember."

"It's the hair." She shrugged. "I tried charming mine to look like that for a day, but it doesn't really suit me. You lot still at Hogwarts?"

"Seventh-years." I made the word both a curse and complaint. "Harry's sat his exams already, though, so he's my tutor and shoulder to cry on."

Frobisher shook her head. "Lucky you. I was so worked up about exams that I almost gave up on Quidditch for the year. But I stuck it out and we won the Quidditch Cup. Managed to get enough NEWTs to graduate and make my Mum happy, but I'd been recruited by the Harpies and I wasn't about to take some desk job when I could be flying every day."

I nodded, remembering all of this from the autobiography of Gwenog Jones that Charlie had given me when I was twelve. "That was the last year that Hufflepuff won before the Slytherin-Gryffindor rivalry hit its peak, wasn't it?"

"Good memory," she said approvingly. "Shame my sister couldn't carry on the legacy, but she was a Ravenclaw anyway and has a better head for books than I ever did."

I remembered her—Megan had been in Harry's year. No Hermione Granger, but she had less of a superiority complex than most Ravenclaws did.

"She did say that you were the only Gryffindor Quidditch player she respected," Gwenog added, turning back to Harry. "Have you ever thought of giving the League a try?"

"I've already got a job offer," he replied. "Thanks for the suggestion,though."

"We recruit from the schools more than you might think," Frobisher commented. "Lefoux is from Beauxbatons and, of course, you'll have heard of Viktor Krum."

"And Oliver wood from Puddlemere United was team captain when I joined," Harry added.

"Why don't you come to a Hogwarts game?" I blurted out.

All heads turned towards me. I hadn't meant to suggest anything of the kind, but it had just kind of come out.

'Brilliant idea," Gwenog said. "We've got an exhibition game in Scotland next month. Are there any matches then?"

"Hufflepuff's playing Slytherin," Harry recalled. "Though if you really want to see the best flying, you'll come for the Cup match."

"Where I hope to see Hufflepuff against Gryffindor," Gwenog practically growled. "From what I've heard, _that _would be a match worth watching. None of that sabotage nonsense. Just good, intelligent strategy."

"I'll do my best to make it happen," I said. "I'm team captain this year."

"Good." She turned her head. "And here's your Bludger."

The ref who had been assigned to tame it was definitely worse for the wear. He had a cut lip and a large bruise on one arm, but he was holding a Bludger. Frobisher accepted it from him with a bow and extracted her wand from her robes. After etching "To Harry with love, Lily F." on it, she passed it over.

"I don't know about our captain, but save me a seat for the Quidditch Cup," she requested. "I'll owl you about it when we're closer to it."

It was Harry's turn to look slightly flabbergasted. "Yeah, sure."

Being a war hero and assistant professor hadn't done much for his public speaking skills. "I'll remind him," I promised.

"Well, good to see you again, Harry and…"

"Ginny," I reminded her. "Great game."

We shook hands all around and ducked through the crowds before anyone could get around to noticing Harry. It was a short walk to the Apparition point, but we took our time.

"Well done," Harry commented as soon as we were relatively on our own. "I wouldn't have thought to invite her."

"I'm not sure what I was thinking," I rejoined. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It still seems like a brilliant idea," Harry insisted. "After all, I hear you've got a much better chance if you're recruited than if you go to one of their general tryouts."

"But I don't know if that's what I want to do," I protested.

He took my hand and grinned knowingly. "It's just one of your options."

All right, so it was one of the only options I was considering. I liked most of my classes, but hadn't felt a strong draw to anything except Defense Against the Dark Arts. And I wasn't about to put both of us in something like the Auror Department. The _Prophet_ was looking for a new sports correspondent, but I'd rather be playing Quidditch than writing about it.

"I reckon it's your best option," Harry interjected. "You'll just have to make it a Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match as Gwenog requested."

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As that turned out, it was harder than it seemed. We flattened Hufflepuff through a combination of Wheezes, tactics and a brilliant bit of Chasing by Demelza Robbins. Of course, it helped that I managed to get the Snitch before the Hufflepuffs could score more than twenty points. That unfortunately left Hufflepuff in a position to be eliminated if they didn't beat Slytherin in the April match. I sent an owl to George saying to put it on my tab and cornered Owen Cauldwell before dinner.

"Look," I said. "No one likes the idea of Slytherin taking the cup. Right?"

"Right," Cauldwell said cautiously. "We don't plan on letting them."

"Us either," I agreed. "But if you want to defeat Slytherin, you're going to need a little more than the tricks your players pulled last weekend."

"Tricks such as the Decoy Detonators you planted on the Quaffle during the second half of the match?" he asked shrewdly.

"Precisely." Cauldwell was no idiot—his tactics had proven that—but he needed a little nudge in the right direction. "You can't wait for next Hogsmeade weekend. You need some time to practice. Just owl Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, Hogsmeade branch and say Ginny sent you. George will know what to do."

He looked more relieved than before, but his wariness couldn't be covered up. "How much will this cost us?"

"Let's just say you'll owe us one," I suggested. "We're pretty reasonable that way."

I was feeling generous. After all, I could have done something that would have landed one of us in detention, insisted on Chocolate Frogs for the whole of Gryffindor House or forced him to wear Gryffindor colors for the next week. But I was in an exceptionally good mood due to the Cannons' current record. Not only had they won all three of the Holyhead series, but they were now on a six-game winning streak. They weren't ready to take over first place in the League, but they were _this close_ to tying the standings. If they did this well going into the elimination rounds, there was no telling what might stop them.

On the home front, things were even better. Usually, the exploits of my team didn't get noticed by anyone but the other members of the Weasley family or my dorm mates who asked me when I'd pick a team with better colors, but this year it was different. Angela Wood hadn't gloated in days. Hagrid hung orange curtains in the window facing the school. As always happens with fads, a whole cult of previously-undiscovered Cannons fans cropped up. Harry rolled his eyes when they weren't watching and muttered something about a bandwagon, but I wasn't sure what that meant. Most satisfying was when Victoria Frobisher, the younger sister of the Harpies Beater, shyly asked if she could borrow my copy of _Flying With the Cannons._

And then Merlin blessed the Cannons.

It was one of our mornings taking breakfast in the Great Hall and I had just passed Harry the scrambled eggs when the morning post arrived. Harry paid the owl for the _Daily Prophet_ delivery and unrolled it.

The headline was impossible to miss: **"SCANDAL!" **I immediately rounded the table to read over his shoulder and a few others who had caught sight of the paper crowded around as well.

"_The Quidditch world was staggered last night by allegations at the highest level that last year's League championship was fixed. There have been rumors to this effect, but they were unsubstantiated until a mandatory potioning check went awry. _

"_Seventeen Quidditch players from Tchamba to Tutshill face further investigation and possible suspension for their use of the potion Felix Felices—more commonly known as Liquid Luck. The substance is banned under article 711 of the International Standard…_ Wow."

"Seventeen?" I squeaked. "Does it name names?"

Harry ran his finger down the page to a small list. "No one from Chudley," he breathed quietly. "Lefoux from the Harpies…"

"Blimey," a Ravenclaw from the crowd added. "That's half the Tornadoes."

"And they haven't even started checking the reserve teams," I added. "Merlin's beard, this is bad."

I couldn't help feeling a little giddy, though. Even if it was a temporary suspension, the Cannons' chances of beating Tutshill were looking better by the day.


	15. Chapter 15

Author's note: You'll probably notice that this chapter is better than usual. There's a reason for that. If you remember Kateydidnt, the person who requested this fic and to whom it is dedicated, she's more involved than usual in this chapter. When it came to the end of our yearly bet, we had both written the requisite three chapters. So she proposed that we swap stories for a chapter and let an impartial judge decide the winner. This adorable little chapter is HER FAULT!

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It turns out there were only two reserve players in the entire league that were found to be using Felix Felicis—a Tornado (hah!) and an Arrow. I guess whoever was supplying wasn't going to waste the expense on someone who isn't a regular player. There were still questions as to who had been making such a prodigious amount of Felix Felicis, and why in the middle of a war they had decided the best asking price they could get was from Quidditch players. I certainly would have paid a lot to have had some of it on me last year.

The late edition of the Prophet that evening had printed an apology and resignation from Lafoux, an outright denial of the allegations from the Wasps's seeker, and an argument from a Tornado's Chaser that though he admitted to the use of Felix Felicis this season, there was no connection to their performance last season. He attributed their league win to a combination of skill and experience. He also flat out denied any advantages they might have had being the only team to not lose any regular players when the muggle-borns had been forced to flee.

I had to concede the point that the Tornadoes performance last season might not have anything to do with Felix Felicis, but I guessed that whoever had been brewing the potion and profiteering from it during the war must have found himself or herself with an abundant inventory when it ended rather suddenly and had scrambled to find a new market for the wares.

I shared this with Harry as we snuggled together that evening—he looking over some of the forms the Auror department had forwarded and me with some homework.

"Very likely," he responded to my theory pausing with his quill hovering above the parchment.

"What's that?" I asked, tired of looking at my charms text for the moment. He sighed and shifted nervously, putting me on alert.

I raised an eyebrow and he sighed again and pushed it into my hand.

"Survivor Benefits for Aurors Killed while on Active Duty," I read out loud. My stomach twisted uncomfortably as I skimmed the explanatory text. "So," I said, attempting a light tone, "giving it all to Percy, right?"

I was hoping he would let it go, I know he had noticed my tension, but like most men he didn't usually enjoy discussing "feelings". Not that I did either. Growing up with a bunch of rowdy boys had taught me the way you apologize is to punch someone's shoulder and the way you show affection is to switch their biscuit for a Canary Cream (which, incidentally was also how you showed someone you were annoyed, or that you were in a good mood; Growing Up Weasley was a language all its own).

Unfortunately, Harry didn't let it go. "Ginny, if you have concerns about me being an Auror..."

"Of course I have concerns," I snapped, "But I know you're good at it, and I know you will love it. As long as you don't break up with me again 'for my own good' then we can work through it."

"I'm never breaking up with you again, Mrs. Potter," he murmured suddenly very close to my ear, sending a shiver down my spine.

I promptly dumped my books and his papers to the floor and turned all my attention to him.

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The next morning I was practically bouncing as I made my way to the Great Hall. Harry had had a meeting early with Hestia about something to do with grading and so I made my way alone. A gaggle of fifth year girls gawked at my insane grin and then started giggling as one of them whispered what was probably a very accurate guess as to why I was so happy. I paid them no mind, I was not going to be ashamed in any way of my relationship with my husband.

Spontaneously I decided to join Luna at the Ravenclaw table as I spotted her sitting at one end alone. Despite how close we had banded the previous year against the Death Eater staff and Slytherins, many of the students were stand-offish about Luna.

I plopped down beside her and started preparing my breakfast plate. She glanced at me and then grinned saying, "Looks like you have had an encounter with a Bluhment. You're certainly glowing enough to have been waited upon by an entire colony."

A Bluhment was not one I had heard of before, but after seven years I had learned to interpret some of Luna's speech. I took her comment to mean I was looking happy, which I was, so I simply said, "Thank you," and started eating.

"Miss Weas..." McGonagall spoke up sharply and then caught herself and started again, "Mrs. Potter, please reseat yourself at the Gryffindor table."

At the "Mrs. Potter" the fifth years who I had passed in the hallway broke out into giggles again. Professor McGonagall scowled at them. She seemed to be in a rather grumpy mood this morning, which I put down to the fact that two Wasps were implicated in the Quidditch scandal. As I picked up my plate to move to my table, I briefly wondered how many more closet Cannons fans would reveal themselves now that they were one of only a couple teams unaffected by this.

The newspaper had just been delivered when Harry slid in beside me and gave me a quick kiss. He started serving himself and looked over my arm to see what was happening. There wasn't much new on the scandal itself (investigation still pending, authorities looking for other evidence of cheating), but there was some great news as a result of the teams immediately benching all suspected players.

I squealed with delight as I read the announcement, "The Tutshill Tornadoes announced this morning that they would be forfeiting the Wednesday game against the Pride of Portree. The Pride of Portree, ranked fifth in the league puts the Tornadoes in a tie with the Cannons. If the Cannons can pull a win on Friday against Kenmare then they will be ranked first in the league."

I started bouncing wildly next to Harry, who laughed.

Today was turning out to be a very good day indeed!


	16. Chapter 16

Author's note: If you're wondering when I started working on this chapter, I had a previous author's note saying that I was just trying to post this before I went to Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2. Meanwhile, my thanks and apologies go to Kateydidnt. She came up with the premise of the middle bit and when I needed a good laugh to put me back in the right mindset, she suggested we watch Clue. Bam, I was back in the mood to write something Potter on Boxing Day. And, finally, in my defense, I have been spending a lot of time on Pottermore.

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It was hard to tell what had me more on edge: Friday's game against Kenmare or Hufflepuff's game against Slytherin the following day. I shouldn't have had much time to think about it that week, since I had loads of work to do before I could even think about my weekend plans, but on Tuesday night, Harry unearthed me from a pile of books and took his seat on the couch with a very serious air about him.

"It comes down to this," he said solemnly. "I can get you out of double Potions on Friday if you want to go to Kenmare, but there's a chance we won't make it back for the Hufflepuff-Slytherin match."

"What, are you mad?" I started counting on my fingers. "Wimbourne they finished in five hours. They squeaked by Holyhead in only two. The longest any of their games has gone in the last month has been nine hours and that was because of the fog."

"That's true," Harry granted, "but this is Kenmare and I've done some checking on their competitive history."

He pulled out a parchment and stabbed a finger at a date. "November 21, 1994. Kenmare versus Chudley, twenty-four hours. February the third, 1995, they kept going so long that they had to cancel several other matches. And according to the standings, they have to win the match by more than one hundred points to gain a true lead over Tutshill. In terms of scoring, they're still slightly behind."

"In other words, they won't go down without a fight," I agreed. "And you want to know if I want to be there or watching Cauldwell annihilate a few cocky purebloods."

He grinned at that. "I guess that's my answer," he said. "Do you want to charm Professor Slughorn or shall I?"

"You've got other things to worry about," I pointed out. "I don't expect you to come home from training at the Ministry and have to butter up the Potions master."

"I'll leave it to you, then," he said. He leaned over and charmed my books to float back to the study table that I was using as my second workspace. "What's tonight's bane?"

"McGonagall," I growled. "I was supposed to be turning a coat into a fox, but all I could manage was a stuffed animal. I have extra homework to explain why I didn't bring it to life."

"Your mind was on other things?" he suggested.

That was an understatement for this week, but not actually the reason that I had failed the practical assignment. "No," I corrected. "I didn't much fancy having a fox running loose in the third-floor corridor."

I extracted a back issue of _Transfiguration Today_ from the middle of the stack. "This one is supposed to have a feature on 'Breath of Life Transfiguration Tricks,'" I commented. "What about you?"

He Summoned the stack of parchment that he'd been reviewing before dinner and sighed. "Appearance charms. They want to make me do a basic assessment on Thursday and that's one of the things that I never bothered with."

"You were never a fourth-year Gryffindor girl," I pointed out. "All of us went through a vain period at one time or another."

"Really," he chuckled. "You would have thought that I'd notice if you turned up with warts."

"Of course you would have, but one day, I practiced a shortening charm on my hair and you asked if I had a new scarf on," I pointed out.

His eyebrows drew together as he obviously tried to place the event. "How much did you shorten it?"

"Eight inches." I grinned. "To be fair, I _did_ have a new scarf."

"Well, as long as I got that right."

I uncapped my ink bottle and started writing a quote from the breath of life article. As soon as I'd closed the magazine, Harry spoke up again.

"I'll write a letter to Slughorn," Harry offered. "You do the actual wheedling."

That would leave it up to chance whether or not Slughorn could show favoritism to an absent person. If nothing else, I would keep a Puking Pastille in my pocket as a backup plan. Slughorn was brilliant at Potions, but I'd heard tell that he'd gone green when a first-year was sick at the sight of armadillo bile. A mystery case of the stomach flu would surely get me out.

"Agreed."

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As it turned out, Slughorn canceled his lessons on Friday to lecture at a meeting of the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers. If it weren't for having double Transfiguration on Friday mornings, I would have skived off and we could have made our escape Thursday night.

Friday morning, though, I was finishing that essay for McGonagall when I heard a loud hissing from the fireplace. I turned towards the source of the sound and promptly dropped my quill on the floor.

"Morning, Hermione," I said, trying to sound casual. "Nice of you to drop in."

"Morning," she said in a slightly breathless voice. "Is Harry around? You should both hear this."

I raised my wand and cast a _tangus_ in the direction of our door. It wasn't one that I used often, but it knocked when I was too lazy to get up and didn't want to shout down the dorm. A moment later, Harry came out, smoothing his hair and pulling on a sweatshirt.

"Hmm?"

I nodded towards the fireplace and he straightened his glasses before blinking at the bushy-haired best friend's disembodied head.

"Morning, Hermione," he said as if this were just what he was expecting early on a Friday morning. "Has my wife offered you some toast?"

"I would have sent an owl," Hermione said immediately, "but this isn't something that can wait."

We both sat down on the couch facing the fire and waited for her to go on.

"I just got owl post from Wendelyn Woodward," she explained. "I haven't talked to most of the Order, but Ron has, too, which means you're next."

"Wendelyn..."

"New girl at the _Prophet," _Hermione said. "She wants to have a few words with all of us for an upcoming piece."

"Does this have something to do with the Battle of Hogwarts?" Harry sounded more resigned than tired now.

"It's coming up on a year," Hermione confirmed. "They want to do a 'Where are they now' sort of a piece and it seems Woodward is looking to make her mark."

"Well, now that Rita Skeeter is a full-time biographer, why not?" I sniggered. "There must be a deozen people willing to fill her smelly old shoes."

"Exactly," Hermione sighed. She turned her head to look at Harry directly. "I've read her work and she's not bad. She's not very good yet, but she's no Skeeter. I thought you should be warned."

"I'll expect her owl," he said. "I don't know what I'll do about it, but I'll expect it. Have you or Ron responded?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "You know Ron," she said. "He'd rather eat a vomit-flavored jelly bean than talk about his feelings."

"You don't have to remind me," Harry said with a smirk. "It'd be St. Mungo's all over again."

"'And what was your reaction to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's ultimatum?' 'Yeah, that's not something you need to know, is it? I mean, do you really think that'll help?'"

"She'd be in tears after ten minutes," I commented. "I think he'd be doing her a favor by refusing to talk. Set it up anyway and sell tickets."

Hermione shot me a reproachful look that she must have borrowed from Mum. "You're doing all right?" she asked. "I've barely had a note from you since the housewarming."

"Harry's at the Ministry half the night and I've got loads of homework," I pointed out. "We'll set aside a Sunday to write you a nice long letter."

"When's the next Hogsmeade visit?" Harry asked. "It might be easier to meet up then."

"Saturday next," I recalled. "Meet us at noon in the Hog's Head and see if you can't get my brother to come along."

"I don't think he'll be hard to convince," Hermione said. "Ron keeps banging on about the Kenmare match tonight, so I assume you're going?"

"Wouldn't miss it," I confirmed. "If Slughorn weren't already skiving, I'd be sneaking off before the end of lessons."

"Good." She gave Harry a pointed look. "You're both under a lot of pressure and I will be checking in with one or both of you to make sure you're not taking yourselves too seriously."

"You sound like George," I complained. "I'm a Weasley by birth and a Potter by marriage. I think I can work out the meaning of a holiday on my own."

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We usually didn't dress up for the matches. I'd seen the nutters—usually the Darymples—half-naked and painted in Cannons colours. I've seen pudgy babies dressed as cannonballs. I even once saw a Wimbourne fan Transfigure himself badly into a kind of human wasp.

Given that this was a special occasion, though, we decided to play it up a bit. Harry painted his face orange and I put my hair in two plaits woven through with black ribbons and tied off in orange. If the Cannons won tonight, there would be plenty of photos in the _Prophet_ and I wanted to have a good chance of making it into them. And if they lost, at least I'd have had fun doing watching it.

Normally, when we went on a trip, we would make a weekend of it. It had been years since I'd seen a match on Irish soil and I knew Harry had never been to the Ring of Kerry, so we could have had a nice romantic getaway.

But the fact of the matter was, the only thing we cared about more fervently than the outcome of the Kenmare-Chudley match was seeing Hufflepuff v. Slytherin. If they didn't overlap, we were determined to turn up at both and finding a nice B&B in Cahersiveen where we could be uninterrupted by Peeves was not in the plan.

The problem was, something else not in the plan turned up at the match. Chudley was up 50-40, a properly close score, when someone tapped me on the shoulder.

"Ginny," Maggie said cheerfully, "you remember our John, don't you?"

I remembered John Lwellyn as a specky teenager who spilled his butterbeer in my hair during the League playoffs four years ago, but I wasn't about to say that. I turned around quickly and gave him a polite handshake.

"Harry, this is John, Maggie's oldest. John, this is my husband, Harry."

"I recognize you right enough," John said over the screams of the other fans when Chudley scored a moment later. "Me and Wendy were in Oliver Wood's year."

"John was in Hufflepuff and his sister is the Elsie Llwellyn who's a second-year Gryffindor now."

"Wendy, though…" He hooked an arm over the shoulders of a thin, black-haired girl who was looking a little too pleased to see us both. "Third-generation Ravenclaw."

"If he marries her, there'll finally be some brains on the male side of the family," Maggie muttered to me.

"Nice to meet you both," Harry said politely, shaking hands as was expected of him. "Harry Potter."

"Wendelyn Woodward," Wendy replied.

The name clicked immediately and it must have shown because she grinned even more broadly. "I'm guessing you got my owl?" she asked innocently.

"Must have missed it," I said honestly, "but we've heard of you."

"I'm not here on business," she promised.

I didn't believe that for a second, but as long as she wasn't about to break down and demand an interview right then and there, I wasn't letting her spoil my match. I gave her my most winning smile and turned back to see Kenmare's Elspeth Finch score. The scoreboard flashed 70-50. At least I hadn't missed anything terribly important.

A few minutes later, though, just after Chudley had lengthened its lead to 90-50, there was a groan from the crowd. Sullivan, the male Beater on Kenmare, had smacked Gorgovitch upside the face and there had to be a time out for the mediwizards to do their thing. I was tugging nervously on the ends of my plaits and straining to see if he was at least conscious when I heard Harry ask Wendy for a quick word. Gorgovitch forgotten, I turned to him.

"Want me to…"

"Fancy a walk?" he asked.

We headed for the entrance to the pitch and followed the path under the stands where people were usually selling candy floss or roasted chestnuts. I found Harry's hand and latched on firmly so he knew whose side I was on.

"I told you I'm not here on busness," Wendy said with a tight smile.

"And I appreciate that," Harry said quietly. "You're doing me a favor by not cornering me, so I'm going to do you a favor and answer your owl now."

"Me, too," I added.

Harry's grip tightened on my hand and he pulled a straight face. "I know that you've got your reasons for wanting to talk to the survivors," he said. "Hermione tells me you're new at the _Prophet _and you're probably tired of writing the adverts for Madam Malkin's…"

"Mrs. Skower's," she corrected, the edges of her mouth twitching. "I'm not doing this for the glory, if that's what you're saying."

"I don't know you, so I don't know why I think you're doing it." I had to admire Harry's lack of prejudice. I'd made up my mind to dislike her as soon as I heard that she wanted to interview us. "And I'm not going to insult you by making a guess. But there are a lot of things that happened last year and I've told the public everything they need to know. I don't like to talk about it and that's not going to change just because you ask nicely."

"But there are so many unanswered questions," she pressed, dropping all pretense of not being here on business. "You spoke on Severus Snape's behalf, called him a hero. You disappeared for months and returned just to turn yourself in. You…"

Harry held up his free hand. "I've told the public everything they need to know," he repeated himself. "I _will _promise that, if I ever decide to change my mind, I'll think of you first."

She turned a warily hopeful expression to me, but I shook my head. "I don't have as thrilling a tale to tell," I informed her, "but I like talking about it even less. If I ever change my mind, you'll know that I'm either dead or under the Imperius curse."

"I'll remember that," she said with a sigh. "Anything else?"

"Yeah." I dug into my pocket and pulled out a few sickles. "Care to join us in a butterbeer?"

We got back to the pitch just as the ref called the appropriate foul and the announcer called out that reserve Chaser Laura Fretwell was being substituted in for Gorgovitch.

"Oh, good," Harry said. "We didn't miss anything."

The problem with a player injury in Quidditch is that it makes everyone play like schoolchildren for the next little while. The Chasers passed the Quaffle so slowly that a very determined hornet could have intercepted it without being knocked off course. The Keeper barely had to try to guard the posts. For the next thirty minutes, we watched avidly and tried not to yawn.

I wasn't sure who decided to stir things up, but forty-five minutes after Gorgovitch had been carried off to the locker room, something snapped. One of the Chudley Beaters darted between Finch and Dyer and, instead of hitting a Bludger, slammed his bat into the Quaffle itself. Fretwell seized it and streaked up the pitch, scoring on Kenmare before the ref could even decide if that counted as a foul or not. When no whistle blew, there was an even louder roar of enthusiasm from Chudley's fans than when the intercept had happened.

"YES!" Darby shouted from the announcer's box. "Fretwell's filch stands and the score is now 120-60 to the Cannons."

"Brilliant!" I shouted towards the unappreciated Beater who had let Fretwell filch the Quaffle in the first place. "Come on, then!"

Harry was on his feet as well, but for a completely different reason. Knightley had swerved around a Wimbourne Beater and seized the bat. The Beater, swung it angrily over her head, trying to shake off the insane Seeker…

And on the downward swing of the Beater's bat, Knightley swiped the Snitch from the air less than a foot from the opposing Beater's head.

I was practically knocked to the ground as Maggie leapt onto my back from the row behind us. Charlie Darymple grabbed us both and swung us around, knocking into Harry as the scoreboard flashed 270-60.

For the first time in years, the Cannons were officially first in the League.


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